


The Oldest Sins

by shinobi93



Series: The Oldest Sins 'verse [1]
Category: Henry IV - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Excessive alcohol drinking, Gambling, M/M, Modern Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinobi93/pseuds/shinobi93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance,<br/>Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit<br/>The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?”<br/>2 Henry IV</p><p>Hal Lancaster: heir to Lancaster King Ltd and the media’s favourite wild boy. Out drinking every night with his best friend and flatmate Ed Poins, leaving a trail of rumours and gossip to drive his father crazy. The Northumberland Group’s threatening the company, Hal’s own brother is looking to usurp his future position and eventually, Hal's going to have to face up to the life he's created for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is it. The ridiculous, epic Henry IV modern AU. I take liberties with Shakespeare, history and business, only the latter of which I apologise for (sorry, I know nothing about business than what I could gather from Wikipedia and certain films).
> 
> It's based around the plot of both plays, with things changed to suit my purposes and a bit of gratuitous flatmate domesticity to attempt to make up for the sadness that is shipping Hal and Poins. Looks-wise, some of the characters are similar to their Hollow Crown counterparts, some aren't.
> 
> I must offer huge thanks to alichay, who I not only wrote the fic for, but who cheered me on throughout the writing and offered plenty of songs with horribly fitting lyrics for me to obsessively listen to.
> 
> Warnings: Canonical character deaths, a small amount of violence in later chapters (if you think I should add any others, let me know)

A door slams against a wall and everybody jumps. They pretend not to have been startled. They look back at their screens and their files and their surreptitiously held mobile phones, waiting. The workings of Lancaster King Ltd cannot be halted for a little fear. They tap at their keyboards and hiss into their phones to the people on the other side of the city, the other side of the world. Checking up on connections and promises that they’ll probably never follow through with. A man from the Legal department leans against the wall, looking stressed as he gestures wildly at another employee. Today is one of those mornings.

Henry Lancaster walks round the corner and into the large workspace. Almost everybody holds their breath. He is tall, imposing, greying. The suit he wears is not the latest fashion, but it is classic at least. It’s charcoal coloured and mocks his hair. His tie is deep burgundy, for muted danger or subtle threat, but not for wine because he no longer drinks. The doctor said he should have looked after himself when he was younger, so he got a new doctor. There are lines around his eyes, too many lines, and he sighs as he looks around. His morning clearly isn’t going well either.

He strides over to a newspaper lying open across a desk. The nervous looking woman whose desk it is peers through her thick rimmed glasses and begs that the worst won’t happen. The paper is meant to be there, but Mr Lancaster might not see it that way; it is the cause of his bad morning. Amidst the reports of success and profit that his personal assistant listed to him when he entered the office at precisely eight oh five, there was another less savoury item for him to devour. This kind of morning happens more often that anybody in the room would like. Henry’s fingers brush the offending article, complete with picture. It would be symbolic if the newsprint came off on his fingers, dirtying them, but it doesn’t. His hands are smooth, the hands of a man who has never done a day of manual labour in his life, and his nails are cut short by the careful attention of his second wife, Joan.

‘What’s the verdict?’ he asks, his voice rough from the years of smoking that he has also apparently given up. Henry Lancaster doesn’t ask for your opinion. He asks what you’re doing about it, what’s already been done about it, how you’ve handled the situation.

‘It’s not that bad,’ the woman answers, but she’s lying. This time, the company has been brought directly into the spotlight.

‘The press can’t start digging,’ he says to the room as a whole, ignoring her lie. ‘Make sure they don’t.’

The man from the Legal department looks close to having a heart attack. Sweat is running down the foreheads of a great number of those present, Henry included. Nobody wants to start talking, so they all wait for him to continue.

‘What about the girl?’

Glances flood the office. Someone must answer.

‘Fired, sir. Fired as soon as we got word,’ pipes up a voice from somewhere. They probably wrote the email and want the credit.

‘Good. The same will happen to anybody who allows something like this to happen again.’ Henry throws a final look at the newspaper, then turns and walks back along the corridor. The threat was unnecessary, because they all know it, but it’s good to keep them on their toes. That’s what he pays them for.

His PA, Karen, is in a frenzy, but she pauses when she sees him return.

‘Sir?’

‘Cut out the article and give it to me,’ he orders. ‘And tell Human Resources to pick people more carefully next time. The Publicity department especially. They can’t fuck up like this again.’

He storms into his office, hands itching for a cigarette. The room is, like him, decorated in shades of grey. On the windowsill is the pot plant Joan told him would make him seem like a nurturing person. He hates it. That reminds Henry: he should talk to his other sons. He presses a finger to the intercom on his desk.

‘Yes sir?’

‘Email the boys. Make sure they’re aware, tell them not to say anything stupid. God knows what the press’ll try.’

Karen’s fingers dart across her keyboard as she types out an email to Thomas, John and Humphrey Lancaster (she’s always wondered how they got so creative with naming by the fourth son), deciding instinctively to sign it from herself rather than Henry. They’ll know their father didn’t bother writing the message. He uses the personal touch with important clients, but not with his children. The boys suitably warned, she unfolds the newspaper she has hidden under her desk and starts clipping out the cause of this morning’s grief. The photo is dark and bad quality, but it still clearly shows the once employee of Lancaster King Ltd’s publicity department, head thrown back as she takes a shot of some unidentified blue alcohol. From the once neat shirt and tumbling up-do, almost anyone could tell that she’d come from work. In fact, she was meant to be working right then.

Next to her, holding up an empty shot glass in salute and grinning widely, is Harry Lancaster. Known to most as Hal, he is Henry’s oldest son and, according to the papers this morning, he is corrupting his father’s employees in a grand gesture to undermine the company that he will one day be director of.

-

_The previous night:_

‘Hal, my boy, good to see you!’ proclaims Jack Falstaff exuberantly. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell if he’s mocking or he actually has started to talk like that. Eccentric is certainly one way of describing him. Hal smiles boyishly.

‘Jack, what did you expect? Of course I’m here: I was promised an unforgettable evening.’ 

The bar is currently only half full so this statement seems somewhat incongruous. It’s their usual haunt, a bar and nightclub owned by Minnie Quickly, former pop star and their friend. The place is tasteless and tacky and fashionable, although Hal’s patronage of the place may have something to do with the latter. Later, it will be loud and busy, but they are here early, to drink and joke and drink some more. Jack is joined at a table by Pete and Bard, two guys who seem to be, for better or for worse, friends with the gambler. They are both suitably suspicious themselves. Nobody is even sure if Bard, a surly fortysomething who occasionally works as a security guard, has a real name. He’s certainly not a bard.

Hal stands looming over them, his tall thin frame a sharp contrast to the shorter round one of Jack Falstaff. Likewise, Jack’s scruffy pale blue shirt is nothing compared to the vision of Hal: smartly tailored white shirt, skinny black tie with tiny grey flecks, and tight-fitting black jeans, all carefully chosen for the rebellious rich boy look. It is difficult to imagine two people who seem more like they wouldn’t be friends. They met not long after Hal left Oxford, when Jack was recently out of a job, in his fifties and taking up gambling as a full time profession. He’s become more and more of a parasite in the two years since then, but his reputation for knowing how to have a good time is not exceeded by many.

Standing slightly behind Hal, wearing a black shirt and a grin, is Edward Poins. He is shorter, with longer dark hair to Hal’s light gelled curls, and usually known by his surname alone.

‘Been here since opening, Jack?’ he asks, as Hal disappears off to the bar.

‘Before,’ boasts the older man. ‘Minnie didn’t mind.’

Right on cue, Minnie Quickly appears.

‘Edward!’ She is the only person not in his family to call him that, and he barely speaks to his family any more. ‘Does that mean-?’ She looks over at the bar. ‘It does! I knew you boys would be in tonight.’ It’s no impressive prophecy: they’re in most nights for at least one drink or a chat, but Minnie likes to make a big deal out of it.

‘Minnie,’ smiles Hal as he returns, handing a beer bottle to Poins. He throws an arm around the woman. ‘I drink to your establishment.’

They all drink, gesturing their bottles and glasses at her before doing so. This is a ritual of theirs, the kindness to their hostess of sorts. She is the sort of woman to keep on the good side of: cheerful and friendly, but fierce if you anger her. Her hair is dyed blonde but the smile on her face is real.

‘What’ve you been up to, Hal?’ asks Jack once the two newcomers are seated with their drinks.

‘Oh, this and that. You know how it is, so much to do.’ They all laugh appreciatively. ‘Couldn’t get a new suit, though, as Poins insisted on going to work, and I can't tell which is best when the shop assistant is the only other opinion. For some reason, they always think the most expensive one looks best...’

‘Some of us need to earn money,’ retorts Poins. ‘Just buy the expensive one and send the bill to your dad. Your clothes-buying keeps the economy afloat.’

A few drinks later, the place is full and the night promising. Their usual waitress, Doll, brings over a tray of drinks. Nobody in the club notices they’re the only people who get this service without paying extra. She’s young, around Hal’s age, and strikes most people as someone they don’t want to mess with. Her hands slip as she leans towards the table and Hal reaches out to stop the tray from tipping.

‘Not doing anything shocking tonight, lads?’ she inquires.

‘There’s still time,’ says Jack. ‘Gotta get Hal in the morning papers, after all.’

Laughter. The lights flash, illuminating their faces: youth set against decadent middle age, but all joyous, revelling in this night like so many others.

‘I think my fame can handle a few quieter nights. Not that I want quiet nights but sometimes it isn’t meant to be.’ Hal gestures dramatically, then slowly shakes his head in lament for all these hypothetical boring evenings.

‘Calm down Olivier,’ Poins mocks with a smirk, putting a hand on Hal’s shoulder in warning. Sometimes he assumes the persona of the put-upon uni friend particularly well; it’s an act he’s worked on since they met at Oxford. In reality, Ed Poins does not mind. Hal's dramatics are a major part of his life.

Jack isn’t ready to let the matter drop. ‘If they don’t discuss your antics enough though, Hal, they might give the space to that Hotspur instead.’

‘What the fuck would they write?’ asks Hal with a glint of amusement in his eye. ‘An exposé on how pointless he is? Goes to events with that boring girlfriend of his and pretends to work for his father. At least they have stories about me, even with all the lies and exaggeration.’

‘You did dance naked in that hotel fountain,’ points out Pete quietly. 

‘Shame the guy who reported it only had his crappy phone camera. Not that they’d have published the photos anyway, but you could barely see it was me in the one circulating the internet.’

‘And you definitely took home that actress,’ Jack offers with a wink. Hal rolls his eyes, but says nothing. He’s not illuminating the others on that one: they’d be less impressed if they realised he spent that night sleeping in Poins’ room. She was completely wasted and looking for a certain reputation, so he had left her on his bed to sleep it off and still gain the latter. He wouldn't tell if she didn't.

‘You didn’t do coke off the back of that minister’s son, though,’ says Poins, grinning at Hal because he knows the truth about that story too.

Hal doesn’t mind sharing that one. ‘That’d be better if it wasn’t a night when I hadn’t even left the flat. No wonder they had no photographic proof.’

‘Hadn’t left the flat? Better than that. You were watching Bond in the day before’s shirt with a bottle of scotch. Bloody expensive scotch, too.’

‘Just because I take a day off, doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it,’ counters Hal. ‘James Bond requires good scotch.’

‘But drinking the stuff until five am and then leaving for work at half seven’s not so good for me.’ 

The realities of the pair's flat sharing stand exposed. Private routines, domestic habits. There’s a strange moment as they smile at one another in memory of the evening (they ended up tipsily pointing out every flaw in the spy’s behaviour until they ran out of Bond DVDs they owned) and nobody else knows what to do. Jack breaks the quiet.

‘Too sober. We need more drinks!’ He says this despite it not being long since Doll brought them the last round; the evening only really gets going once they've consumed enough alcohol, or at least feel like they have. Nobody questions whether Jack can even afford this.

Their chat about who's buying the round is interrupted by the presence of a smartly dressed woman standing next to their table with her arms folded. Hal puts on his most charismatic grin as he turns to look at her.

‘Yes?’ he asks, wondering if she’s after something. Fame, maybe. She does look pretty boring, in her smart white shirt and black pencil skirt. Executive, or trying to be.

‘Hal Lancaster?’ He nods. Her voice is nervous, but her face determined. ‘I have a message from your father.’

To her surprise, he bursts out laughing. Poins, Jack and Pete all have grins on their faces, because this has happened before. They’ve sent many a messenger away with a surprised look and the fear of dismissal.

‘Sorry,’ Hal manages to utter after a moment, ‘but my father never says anything to me, just sends all these people. I bet your message has been written and changed by at least two people who aren’t him.’

‘Well, I...don’t know about that. I’m from the publicity department.’ Hal cuts her off.

‘Of course. Are you lot now preemptively trying to stop my bad press? That’s impressive.’

‘Even we can’t do that,’ interrupts Poins, ‘and we’re the people he’s with when this shit happens.’ The girl wrings her hands, then flattens down her skirt and tries again.

‘They want to ensure there aren’t any more mishaps,’ she begins. Optimistic, Hal thinks. ‘And that you remember who you are.’ 

‘I know who I am,’ he says, as the vague threat goes unheeded. ‘Tonight I’m someone who wants to have a great night out. Care to join us?’

-

Hal’s first thought as his mind starts to lift out of the oblivion of sleep is ‘what the hell happened?’. The pain in his head is nothing new, but his memory is blank and he can barely feel his limbs. Summoning his senses whilst keeping his eyes safe from the glaring light that is inevitably streaming into the room, he deduces that he is indeed in his own room. He has woken up in far too many random places to not be able to work out if he knows his location without a single move. There’s an extra sound though: breathing. It isn’t his.

Tentatively he opens one eye, ready to shut it again if the light is unbearable. It’s not. In fact, someone has shut the curtains, a strange occurrence in Hal’s room. He opens his other eye, taking in the view of one side of his room. Nothing amiss that he can see. A pair of trousers strewn across the floor, but that matches the fact he can tell he’s just wearing boxers and an undone shirt. All of his shirts have been well slept in, regardless of their value.

Trying to brace himself, he summons a modicum of strength and shifts onto his other side. Immediately, he sees where the breathing was coming from. On the other side of the king size bed, fast asleep and clinging onto the duvet for dear life, is Poins. Relief rushes over him. No major scandal, no conniving journalist hoping to get a scoop by being part of the story themselves, just his best friend. It’s not like he minds the reports and gossip, in fact his image thrives on them, but it’s just that he prefers it when he actually remembers what happened. Last night so far is arriving at the club and then nothing. Poins will know.

He raises his arm and shakes the other guy lightly. This has no effect, so he pushes him harder, hand lingering a moment longer than necessary.

‘Poins,’ he tries to say, but his voice rasps with the effort. He settles for ‘Ed’, drawing out the vowel as he warms up his voice.

‘Wha-?’ groans his friend, blinking and trying to bat his hand away. Hal doesn’t relent, waiting for him to wake up fully. He reasons that if he can fight through the pounding head, Poins can at least open his eyes properly.

‘Hal,’ Poins tries to berate, but he’s never been good at doing that properly, even when he’s not half asleep and hungover.

‘Wake up then,’ mutters Hal, his voice still not wanting to go any louder. Poins does, raising his eyelids properly and staring back at his bedfellow. He inclines his head questioningly, somehow achieving this despite it not leaving the pillow.

‘What happened last night?’ Hal forms. Poins smirks, his eyes glittering despite the forced awakening.

‘Don’t you remember? The company sent some poor girl with a message from your father, you invited her to join us and next thing you know, we’ve made her lose her job and she’s dancing up on a podium with her shirt tied up above her stomach.’

‘Why don’t I remember?’ The question is reasonable, because Hal drinks a lot and his tolerance is pretty high normally.

‘Jack started a drinking contest. You won, of course, but you paid the price. So did she, and Pete collapsed on the floor at one point.’ Hal smiles, sending another wave of pain across his temples.

‘Why are you-’ he begins, cutting off to raise a hand to his head.

‘Not dying as much as you? Didn’t keep drinking after the game, unlike you. Or here? Because there’s one either-currently-or-soon-to-be unemployed newbie from the publicity department sleeping in my bed. There was no way she was gonna make it home.’

Hal wasn’t even going to bother asking the second question. It happens pretty often; when you let people into your flat a lot, there’s a good chance some of them will steal your flatmate’s bed. A lot of people hang around because they want something: that can be a place to sleep, or free drinks, or excitement. They’re a necessary part of his image. Poins justifies it every time, though. Always excuses, unnecessary excuses.

‘So,’ starts Hal, having fought past the initial headache. ‘My father'll be angrier than ever, or the publicity people will, and we now take in anybody we corrupt into the high life. That about right?’

‘A good summary.’ Poins’ grin is even bigger now, verging on laughter. ‘Better hope the paparazzi got a shot of her and you, she can be your new love interest. Seduced by the rebel and all that.’ 

Hal bats at the other guy’s arm in protest, but he knows it’s true. When you’re the wayward son and heir of a business giant, there’s always some sleazy journalist or photographer working for a gossip website lurking, watching, and repackaging everything you do. It's all about how you use that, when you can.

‘Coffee? Water? Half the medicine cupboard?’ Poins asks. Hal grunts in affirmation, without specifying further. ‘You’d better get up then. I’m not your slave.’

Hal tries to roll his eyes, but that sends another wave of pain and dizziness through his head. Carefully, he tries lifting his head, watching as Poins rolls off his side of the bed, stumbling as his feet hit the floor. It’s clear he’s somewhat worse for wear too. Regardless of his comments, he tends to drink a similar amount to Hal whenever they’re out: it’s like an act they’ve had since university, pretending that Poins is the responsible one when really they make most of their plans and bad decisions together. Jack’s influence only made this worse.

Poins stands in the middle of Hal’s bedroom, wearing nothing but his underwear, looking around for the shirt he had to have left nearby. He knows he took it off because, unlike Hal, he doesn’t have an almost unlimited supply of clothes and money, so he can’t sleep in all of his decent clothes.

‘Just grab a t-shirt,’ mutters Hal as he stretches to sprawl across the whole bed. Poins does so, and then moves back over to the bed, where he grabs one of Hal’s arms and pulls him up. Slowly, it works. Without waiting to check if the other guy will move any further, he goes into the huge main room of their flat, living room slash dining room slash kitchen, to survey any damage. Jack is asleep on their sofa and there’s empty bottles scattered around, but that’s it. Poins marvels that Jack can even still crash on sofas at his age. Suddenly, another door opens, the one to his room, and Lancaster King’s most impressionable employee emerges.

She blinks and stares at him, holding her head with one hand. Maybe coming out of Hal’s room in boxers and one of Hal’s t-shirts wasn’t the best idea, he wonders, not that she’d know the latter fact. The girl is young, younger than him, and looks like she wants to disappear off the face of the earth. She is, however, wearing more clothes than him.

‘Morning,’ he ventures. She continues to stare. He wonders for a moment if there’s something wrong with his appearance, before turning his head and seeing Hal in the doorway, not even having bothered to do up his shirt. They catch each other’s eyes and snigger. It’s not like they haven’t had to deal with these assumptions before, or more accurately, not deal with them. Saying nothing works for most things - elusive, intriguing, not actually denying or confirming any story. The publicity lot probably do all the dealing, minus the girl who is now staring at them. Hal and Poins are perfectly aware that she’s currently wondering if after all of the denials Lancaster King has circulated over the past few years, the rumour might actually be true.

‘I was just-’ she begins, but she’s cut off by Hal.

‘Have they kicked you out?’ he asked bluntly. They’re all hungover, there’s no point pussyfooting around the issue. She looks down at the ground.

‘Yeah. I got an email this morning on my phone.’ 

There’s silence for a moment, then Poins speaks, ‘Coffee?’ She nods gratefully.

‘You said you wouldn’t bring me any,’ mock-protests Hal, overdramatic even though he’s feeling awful. ‘Not fair.’

‘She’s almost in the kitchen,’ he responds, pointing to the fact that she is indeed nearly standing in the kitchen area of the huge room. ‘You were lying in bed.’

‘Not anymore,’ Hal says petulantly. They’re playing it up for her. When nobody’s there, they don’t argue about it. Poins goes over to the machine and starts spooning coffee in, whilst the girl (who neither of them know the name of) stands awkwardly nearby and Hal goes over to the sleeping figure of Jack.

‘Wonder what’s in his pockets,’ he muses, sticking his hand into the man’s large jacket and pulling out a handful of scraps of paper. He starts to read. ‘Bald Eagle pub, roast dinner and two pints, casino bill, casino bill, random drinks bill, another drinks bill, and a threatening note from someone called Black Eyed Bob.’

‘Seriously? Nobody’s called that,’ remarks Poins as he fills a glass with water and hands it to the girl.

‘Fat old fool. One day he’s going to have to stop scrounging and cheating and lying.’

‘Why do you hang around with him then?’ asks the girl. Hal gives her a look that says Isn’t it obvious?

‘He’s Jack Falstaff,’ he says simply, going back over to where the others are. Poins picks up the freshly brewed coffee pot and pours it into three mugs, then hands them out. The girl is still gazing interestedly between the two of them, with their disheveled looks and the potential for a story. She’s job hunting, after all. ‘And who are you?’

There’s no need from him to be subtle when the person in question has probably read every inch of the file Lancaster King keep on his exploits. The publicity department has to be prepared. Humphrey told him once that apparently it’s a rite of passage, reading his file cover to cover, all the clipped and printed out articles combined with the excuses and reasons that the department gave in response. Running through the girl’s mind now isn’t offense that neither of them know her name (her own memories of the night are pretty hazy, although there’s no chance she wouldn’t know the names of Hal Lancaster and Ed Poins considering her now-ex job), but instead a sense of curiosity.

‘Emily,’ she offers, but nothing else. She sips her coffee and looks at them. The pair look impressed at her coolness: after the initial awkwardness, she now seems fairly composed, not bothered that her hair is still in the bushy state that was created when she took it down from the business-like bun. ‘Is it in the papers?’ she asks.

‘If the company’s already done something, I’d say so,' Poins replies. He’s relieved, because it could have been much worse. It’s such a pain when something is both shocking and true: they get even more people on their tails for a while. Sometimes he wonders how he got here, thinking about paparazzi and scandal and libel. Once he was just a nervous first year at Oxford, running into Hal quite literally as he darted across a quad topless in the snow as part of a drinking game. Quite a start to a friendship.

‘They’ve not contacted me,’ highlights Hal. ‘Can’t care that much.’

‘Or they don’t expect you to be conscious yet.’

‘To be fair, neither did I.’

‘I think they’re going for a new tactic,’ suggests Emily. ‘Seeing how successful their previous one has been.’ 

Hal laughs.

‘As scary as their newest employees and exceedingly polite emails are, that’s probably for the best.’

Emily puts her mug down. ‘I’d better go.’ She disappears off to sort out her appearance, well aware that leaving Hal Lancaster’s flat in a state of obvious disarray could cause even more problems than she already has.

The other two decide upon food. Hal takes what he hopes are effective painkillers and pulls on trousers and an undone waistcoat, ever the hungover rogue. Jack is left to sleep and Poins is still wearing the same t-shirt, which he finally notices was some limited edition one that a designer had given Hal in a bet, which was luckily a bit too tight on the taller guy. The kitchen cupboards are bare and when Emily returns, looking surprisingly composed all things considering, the friends are arguing over who gets the last doughnut they found. She watches in awe, not quite sure what the performance is. Both are playing the part of the hungover, overly domestic flatmates very well, down to the ruffled hair and strange insults.

‘We should just go out for breakfast,’ declares Hal, whilst Poins rips the doughnut in half and hands him a piece.

‘What about him?’ Poins gestures at Jack with a look of distaste.

‘Leave him. If he wakes up and robs us, we’ll get him back for it.’ Emily can’t tell if Hal is joking or not, either with the robbing or the revenge.

Once they’ve taken the lift to the ground floor, the two guys say goodbye as she heads off to the nearest tube station and they go hunting for a cab. Hal is apologetic, smiling sweetly at her, and Emily can see how the publicity department have such a love/hate relationship with the guy: he’s a bastard and spreads half of those rumours himself, keeping them working overtime to deal with everything, but he’s also fun and charismatic and seems so alive. Later, she’ll be fucking furious that he made her lose her job, but right now, in the glaring light of the hungover morning, she’s not feeling too bad about it or him.

Meanwhile, Hal and Poins are plotting.

‘What if we actually play some trick on Jack?’ says Poins as they sit in some fancy faux-American diner, waiting for overpriced pancakes and bacon. The price doesn’t matter: Hal’s paying.

‘It’d have to be good-' Hal starts. Back at Oxford, where they first met, they played pranks on anybody who annoyed them. They were always a step away from going too far, getting reported to someone, if Hal didn't have his winning grin and many offers to buy people conciliatory drinks.

‘Of course. We’ll show him up, the old fool, prove he’s not as great as he thinks he is.’

‘What would we do?’

‘I don’t know yet. Make him think we’ve got a scheme, but the real plan is to laugh at him.’

‘Will that work?’

‘We’ll make it work.’ Poins looks decisive and Hal knows it’s been ages since they’ve planned a real, elaborate trick. Jack’s great, he thinks, but he always needs to be brought down a peg or two. Hal’s not going to say no to this.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Harry! Smile. Just because no one can see you, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t practice.’

Harry Percy, known to most as Hotspur, sighs at her words. The speaker is his girlfriend Kate and she does not sound patient. Then again, she has spent three hours preparing and getting ready for this event hosted by Hotspur’s father, so she has a right to want him to be at his best. The sound of muffled conversation hums in the background, cut off by the closed door. Out there, people are making polite chat, discussing business in sugar-coated tones that are very different to the shouts and threats they make in the private of their offices and phone lines. Henry Percy, the owner of Northumberland Group and Hotspur’s father, is securing contacts and promises whilst those he’s dealing with are in front of their other halves and tend not to argue as much. It’s a tactic he’s been using for years.

In the shelter of this side room, however, Hotspur is lurking. He left to take a call and is now avoiding going back. The events aren’t that bad, but he’s so important to the image of the company and it gets tiring, smiling whilst talking strategy and bemoaning anyone not in favour. Kate will stand beside him and make amusingly disparaging remarks about him, to give him that human, trustworthy side. A team, that's what they are; any cracks are hidden at home, where they can bicker and make up as much as they like.

‘S’pose I’d better go back,’ he mutters, looking at his shoes. They were very expensive: black tie events demand the best. Kate came to find him and is now checking her phone, sending texts at lightning speed to those who desire her attention. She’s vaguely famous, although very few could quite define what for. Being good with people might be an option. She slips the phone back into her clutch bag and leads the way into the large room, filled with media personalities and businessmen. Hotspur shakes off the last of his frown and follows.

A sea of black suits interspersed with flashes of colour confronts them. Kate herself is wearing a stylish deep navy dress, trying to reflect the maturity required to sell their story. The classy media couple. She knew what she was getting into with this relationship. Her hair and make up are expertly done, like a stage costume, and a diamond droplet on a silver chain settles against her dark skin to show the money standing behind her. She is easy to pick apart.

‘Harry, m’boy,’ proclaims Thomas Percy, Hotspur’s grey-haired, bespectacled uncle, as he drifts past them. Whilst his brother runs the company, Thomas is the threatening power behind their dealings and he’s been a second father to his nephew who grew up amidst the growth of the Northumberland Group into the giant it is today. Hotspur nods and scans the crowd. He’s looking for Edmund Mortimer, Kate’s brother and fellow member of the younger generation that will one day be running this event. Amongst the abundance of greying white guys he’s not difficult to spot.

‘Edmund!’ he says once he’s made it over to the other guy, politely pulling him away from some important guys from a major bank. Kate’s stopped to discuss recent coverage of current events with some TV presenter; the Northumberland Group has enough interests in news and journalism that they attract a good few of them, circling round the weaker spots looking for an entrance to the empire.

‘Hotspur, how’re things?’ responds Edmund, sounding casual but a serious look in his eye that betrays the importance of the evening.

‘Fine, fine...listen, I’ve just had a call from Jacob, apparently there’s some new story about Hal Lancaster making its way across the internet, something about him and some pop star in a club - she has a boyfriend, it’s turned into an attack on him - and maybe we could make the most of this, get some rumours spread ourselves and fuck with Lancaster?’

Hotspur’s words gush out, like there’s always something pressing at his time. He’s picked that up from his father. Sometimes he sounds like he’s speaking to an answering machine, not really expecting a response until he finally shuts up. Edmund smiles eagerly, genuine rather than polite. He talks under his breath, better at constraining his excitement than Hotspur.

‘Fuck yeah, let’s sort something out. He’s an idiot if he doesn’t think that they won’t find out every little thing he does. That we won’t find out. Do we have any unpublished gossip or anything?’

‘Not that I know of. We’ll have to make something up. What hasn’t been mentioned in a while?’

‘What about that fat guy he hangs out with? Jack Falstaff? Can we make another story about Hal promising him half the company or something like that? You know people will like a bit of that along with the scandal of the pop star thing. Connect his joke of a life with Lancaster King?’ Hotspur nods.

‘I’ve got a meeting first thing tomorrow, can you get it spread before then?’

‘Of course. I’ll email a couple of people as soon as we’re done here.’ Edmund looks down at the glass of champagne in his hand. ‘Good stuff, this. Your father really spares no expenses.’

‘You should taste the stuff we celebrate with. It’s phenomenal.’

‘Better do something worth celebrating then.’ They both laugh, not really at the comment. A few people stare at them, taking in their youth and vibrancy packaged in almost identical dinner jackets. Hotspur is famous here. Kate walks over and greets her brother.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Just dealing with Hal Lancaster’s press coverage, y’know?’ replies Hotspur casually. She smirks.

‘That can’t be difficult. I’ve heard at least two different lots of people here gossiping about how he’s throwing his life down the drain. His father must be going crazy.’

‘We’ll add some fuel to the fire, then,’ Edmund says. ‘Give the company a few more problems to worry about if nothing else.’ His sister nods, grabbing a glass from a passing waiter.

‘I don’t see why he doesn’t just get himself a relationship, even if it’s just for show.’ She sips her champagne. ‘Give the press something concrete to gossip about rather than letting people make this shit up.’

‘Gotta fill the papers somehow,’ remarks Hotspur. ‘Might as well be undermining old Henry Lancaster at the same time. Anyway, who knows? Maybe it’s all true.’

‘My money’s on none of it,’ Kate tells them. ‘It’s all fabricated or an act. No idea why, though. Maybe he’s just attention seeking.’

‘Maybe he’s just a dick,’ suggests Edmund. They laugh, the sound of mockery dancing in the air. All’s fair in business and war.

‘I better go and mingle,’ Hotspur says, sarcasm dripping off the last word. ‘Arrivederci.’ He saunters through the crowd, smiling and nodding at various business associates and minor celebrities. Just another day at the office for Harry Percy.

-

Jack sits at the bar of Minnie’s club and waits for the place to open. Doll is behind the counter, organising bottles and laughing at the stories he tells. She never knows whether to believe them or not: Jack’s tales are always about ripping people off and drinking too much, both of which sound plausible, but there’s always some twist that makes them fantastical. The poker game which turned into a casting session for an upcoming play. A young heiress who promised him a fortune if he carried her coat across London for the night. It’s funny how nobody ever pays up in his stories, or at least he doesn’t bear the effects of them having done so.

With the overhead lights on, the club looks a lot seedier than it does in the relative dark. The curse of the nightclub. The black paint is revealed to be fading and chipped, the floors shine with stickiness that will never be completely removed. Minnie keeps a decent establishment, but there are horrors of running the place that must be lamented: the constant drunkards, the insults, the inescapable feeling of things being unclean. On the plus side, it makes good money, helped greatly by its infamy as the watering hole of Hal Lancaster and his motley gang. People buy the media’s image of him as a charismatic leader of a group of rebels who drink and smoke and sleep with anybody. Why question it, after all?

The banging of a far-off door echoes through the almost deserted building. A few employees are working to prepare for opening, but none but Doll will talk to Jack. They’re all fed up of him. Voices buzz and then a door opens. Hal and Minnie step into the large main room, stopping their conversation as they do so.

‘Jack!’ announces Hal, as if the name is somehow important. ‘You old rogue, here already?’

‘You knew I would be, Hal,’ points out the older man. ‘Or you wouldn’t be here too.’

‘You’re too predictable. All you want are drinks and someone to buy them for you.’

‘Little shithead, you don’t know anything.’ He roars with laughter at his own insult.

‘Oh Jack, one day you’ll have drunk enough to preserve your insides forever.’ 

Doll sniggers at this whilst putting out drinks menus. She personally agrees with this judgement.

‘Boys.’ Minnie shakes her head, ignoring the fact that technically Jack is around her own age. ‘You never can just be nice to one another.’ Hal smiles and gestures wildly.

‘There’s nothing else to do, Minnie. We’re simply bringing light to our otherwise meaningless and empty lives.’ He bows, then throws his head back in laughter. It’s surprising he doesn’t get whiplash. ‘Talking of our meaningless and empty lives - Jack, I have a proposal for you. Poins and I have a plan for making a bit of money, we’ll talk about it once he gets here.’ Hal’s tone suggests a secret, a confidence to be shared. He has a great way of making people feel important. It's lucky too, as that plus the mention of money stops Jack questioning why Hal needs to make any. Poins either: he lives with Hal, and it's clear he doesn't pay for much of that.

‘Where is Poins?’ asks Doll, who has given up pretending to do anything but listen to them now.

‘At work,’ answers Hal. ‘He should be here soon.’

Sure enough, a few minutes later there’s another banging at the door. Poins is wearing a shirt and tie, his hair slicked back into a vague picture of conformity. The tie is one of Hal’s, because he has too many and it saves Poins buying any. His job is nothing special, a glorified office boy at an advertising firm, but it’s something and it allows him to pay at least some of the rent.

‘Advertise anything good?’ Hal asks by way of hello. Poins shakes his head.

‘Spent the whole day sorting out hard copies of client files and running them round the office. It was thrilling.’

‘I was just telling Jack that we have a little plan to execute, if he wants in.’

‘It could be risky, but it’ll be worth it in the end,’ taunts Poins. Jack looks enthralled. Hal beckons him over to an empty table, where the three sit down.

‘What’s the plot, boys?’ The two grin at each other, proud of their work, and start to explain what needs to be done.

-

The lock up is mundane and similar enough to so many others in the area that you have to know what you’re looking for. Its bricks are old and covered in the remnants of years of posters being pasted upon each other and torn back down ineffectually. Jack peers at it through the darkness, locating the tiny number which discerns it as the one he’s looking for. He’s used to shady places: he’s frequented a great deal of them in his time, often to participate in dodgy card games that he’s always so sure that he’ll win. Sirens sing in the distance. This better go well, he thinks, because there’s no way he can run, not at his size and age. Years of drinking and smoking take their toll on a person’s fitness. He gestures back down the passage, hoping that Pete or Bard will see the movement. Sure enough, a moment later he is joined by the pair, both of whom have blindly followed him into this plan.

To call it a robbery might be accurate, but it’s not the sort of robbery he’s familiar with. Somehow (Jack has no desire to ask how), Hal has acquired the information of how they could steal from some little company that has dealt with Lancaster King Ltd in the past. Little is relative, Jack thought when he heard how much they could make from the night’s work, but Hal was the one talking after all. The secret to their success is apparently this run down storage area: he’s been told that kept within it are an abandoned set of files that contain the information will get them through the computer system’s security and able to siphon off money in some complicated way. Jack isn’t entirely sure about the whole technological side of the plan, but Hal promises that it is almost foolproof and Jack isn’t going to argue. When it comes down to it, he could do with the cash.

Bard sticks the key Hal gave them into the lock. He looks like his usual grumpy self, distrustful of everyone. Jack likes him though: they have a similarly mean sense of humour and are both really too old to hang around in the scene that they do. Pete is slightly younger and quieter, seeming to have fallen into their lifestyle by accident because he was out of a job and discovered the thrill of betting what little money he had left. They are all desperate enough to be here at three in the morning, lurking in the shadows and doing the legwork whilst Hal and Poins are nowhere to be seen. Jack assumes they have deigned themselves too important to put in the hard work, or too cowardly.

They pull open the door and rush inside, praying that Hal was right and there’s no alarm system. It’s pitch black inside and they crash into one another, knocking over unknown objects and sending them clattering across the floor. Pete pulls out his phone and the illumination from the screen aids their vision; none of them thought to bring a torch.

‘If anyone asks,’ whispers Jack. ‘We’ll make it sound a lot better. No knocking stuff over, more skillful shit.’

He peers into the gloom, looking for an obvious place that might be used to store the documents they’re after. The lock up is mostly full of office crap, unused desks and broken chairs, but near the back there’s a bunch of filing cabinets that could yield results. Pete is following him, holding the phone high to light up their path, and Bard is using the exemplary technique of walking into things and seeing if the papers fall out of thin air.

‘Be quiet,’ Jack warns as he reaches the filing cabinets. ‘We don’t want to attract the attention of passers by.’

He grabs the handle of a drawer, but it seems to be locked. Luckily, surprisingly even, they came prepared for that. Pete leans over and starts to pick the lock, whilst Jack looks on impatiently, now holding the phone aloft. He’s much better at gambling money than stealing it. The tiny clicks make him irritable: all he wants to do is get out of there and have a stiff drink or four. Finally, Pete steps back, deferring the honour of opening the drawer to their unofficial leader.

Jack roughly jerks the drawer open and immediately an alarm starts to screech in their ears. Fucking Hal, he thinks as he freezes with his hand still on the drawer, bastard didn’t even research it properly and then didn’t bother to turn up. A chair tumbles over as Bard stumbles backwards in surprise. Now’s the time for them to hope that they can get out of there before anybody comes to investigate, if anybody even will. People are likely to ignore the noise unless it directly affects them and it’s unlikely that a little filing cabinet alarm is hooked up to a proper alert system, Jack thinks.

The sound of footsteps on the pavement outside. They brace themselves, begging that it’s simply a random drunk stumbling past, although the steps are too even for that. In an instant, the door is opened and a light switch they didn’t notice is pressed. An overhead light flickers on, revealing them caught in the act and the face of an unimpressed looking guy in a t shirt and jeans staring at them. They must look ridiculous. Jack’s just deciding whether to try and run or to sweet talk the guy into thinking they weren’t trying to do anything bad (maybe they were just looking for a place to sleep, they could probably pass off as tramps), when the guy smirks and starts to chuckle.

‘What the fuck,’ whispers Pete incredulously. Jack wonders if the guy’s high.

The newcomer steps further into the lock up, leaving space for Hal and Poins to come in through the doorway, both laughing so hard they can barely walk. The three thieves stare on in disbelief.

‘Oh my god,’ breathes Hal through his laughter, which is now so violent he has to lean on Poins to stop himself from falling over. ‘You’re...such...idiots.’

In that moment, Jack works out what has happened.

‘You wanker Hal.’

This only makes Hal laugh harder. ‘You wound me, Jack. Besides, it wasn’t just me, it was both of us.’ He gestures at Poins, who tries to put on a straight face and fails.

‘Jack, your face,’ Poins mocks.

‘Fuck you.’

‘Come on Jack,’ says Hal sweetly. ‘It’s hilarious. You actually believed my awful story. You three are such terrible thieves, look at you.’

The random guy finally pipes up. ‘Didn’t even turn on the light. Tripping over in the dark and trying to break into a filing cabinet that’s actually empty.’ Jack glares at him.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Now, now,’ Hal berates. ‘Jack, this is Dax, he owns this place and was happy to help us out. Met him in a pub, he was very obliging.’ He starts to giggle.

‘You’re a dick.’

Less than half an hour later, they’re back at Hal and Poins’ flat, which is populated with a bunch of random people they've picked up on the way. They left Dax behind once Hal had talked him into not minding about all the stuff that’d been knocked over and broken. Jack is in a terrible mood: Hal and Poins are reenacting the evening’s entertainment, to the joy of the other people in the room. He sits to one side, telling his side of the story to Doll and some of her friends, painting the younger pair as the villains who tricked a harmless old man. Neither story is the truth, but the truth is subjective. Their respective spin gives the tale a reality that it never had on its own. It will start to spread, a mash of both versions but Hal’s gaining precedence, unsurprisingly. People like to laugh at the foolish old man, even though he’s not as old as they make him out to be.

Even a few days later, the story is still spreading. Minnie tells it to the customers at her club early in the evening before things get busy, exciting them with the knowledge that Hal and Jack could turn up that very evening. The internet catches the bug, questioning whether Hal has become a shady underworld gangster or if Poins is secretly a master thief. They sit in their flat and laugh, getting even more humour out of the trick than they ever expected. These jokes are even better than they were at Oxford; Jack Falstaff, larger than life, more comic than anyone they used to know. Jack complains to anyone he can find, but few people will listen to him any more. He resorts to ranting to Pete, who is too quiet to do much but nod and agree, particularly as he was tricked too. They brew up their bitterness and put it on the shelf for later.

It’s five days after the fake robbery when Hal runs into Edmund Mortimer. Him and Poins are out eating at some sushi place, a regular occurrence considering Poins can barely cook and Hal only will once in a blue moon. They are debating whether to see Jack that night when Mortimer walks past their table, pausing once he noticed who it is.

‘If it isn’t Harry Lancaster, the media’s favourite punch bag,’ Edmund says snidely. 

‘Edmund Mortimer, dogsbody for the Northumberland Group, good to see you,’ responds Hal, putting on his most ridiculous smile.

‘Did I hear you’ve become a petty criminal now as well?’

‘Only along with all the rest of the bullshit Henry Percy’s newspapers print.’

‘Funny, I thought most of the stuff about you was true. You and Ed, for instance…’ His glance lingers on Poins, who is glaring angrily at him. ‘I seem to have struck a nerve.’

‘You’re so full of shit,’ retorts Hal quickly, before Poins say anything. He knows his friend doesn’t take well to being mocked. Especially not about that.

‘Anyway, I’d best be off, as I have real work to do, unlike you. You boys enjoy your little date.’ He smiles at them and walks off towards a table where some guys in suits are waiting for him. Hal waits until Mortimer is well and truly gone before looking into Poins’ eyes seriously.

‘Calm down. He just wants a fucking scene.’ And god knows, Hal thinks, the media would love that. Only he’s allowed to choose when scenes are to be made.

-

Dinner is strained tonight, to say the very least. Henry looks at his daughters and his wife and wonders what to say. Just a few minutes ago, he was screaming down the phone, turning five shades of purple as he insulted Henry Percy in four different languages, only one of which he can actually speak. Now, they’re sitting down to eat chicken parmigiana and pretending they didn’t hear anything. It’s difficult enough for him to know how to connect to his daughters (aged sixteen and fourteen) when he’s used to his four older sons, without having to deal with this awkward silence too. Bethany looks like she wishes she was anywhere but at that table, whilst Philippa seems close to interrogating him about the shouting thing. She’s the youngest of his children and seems to have taken Hal’s example to heart.

‘Apparently Hal’s a criminal mastermind now,’ offers Philippa, testing her father’s patience. ‘I might drop out of school to become his sidekick.’

Henry doesn’t either bother to respond, just glares at her. Joan looks down at her plate and continues to eat. There would be no point in her interrupting: Philippa refuses to listen to her half the time anyway. Knives and forks scrape on the crockery, painful aural reminders that nobody knows what to say except them, the cutlery. Henry wonders his sons are doing, whether they realise the shit he has to deal with. Tom and John probably do: they both work at the company, having chosen that rather than university, but have their own flats (and lives, to some extent). Humphrey is the second of his sons to choose the higher education route. God knows what he’s up to, thinks Henry, who doesn’t have the world’s best view of university. Hal didn’t exactly set the best example there. And finally, his oldest son, well, Henry doesn’t want to think about how his evening is going.

Eventually, the plates are cleared. Without a word, Henry gets up from the table and marches to his home office. There, still sitting on his computer screen, is the email that caused all this trouble. The email from Henry Percy which, in barely polite and formal terms, outlines the ways in which Lancaster King Ltd has screwed over the Northumberland Group and its subsidiaries, mostly through broken promises and stolen employees. It’s all a load of bullshit in Henry’s mind: of course he’s played a little dirty in the past, but that’s the only way to get to the top and Percy knows it. His business methods are no more dodgy than Percy’s own.

All these accusations and this paranoia, Henry knows, are the fault of the fucking media, which the Northumberland Group happens to own a chunk of. It’s not enough for them to print every sensationalist thing about his damn son they can find, but they also have to bring up the company at every moment, highlighting anything they think could be seen as shocking, even if it’s common business practice. In his opinion, you shouldn’t let a bunch of journalists believe they know anything about running a business. It only ends badly.

-

The executive dining room of the Northumberland Group head offices is usually busy at this time, but tonight most people have avoided it: word has spread that Henry Percy is eating there with his son, and he's in a bad mood. The older Percy spends a lot of the time these days in a bad mood, regardless of the successes of his company. The key people in the Group have learnt his tells: flickering pupils, restless hands and the likelihood you’ll find him screaming at someone or another. His son has inherited his temper, so it’s unsurprising nobody particularly wants to be in their vicinity.

‘Did you talk to the web guy?’ Henry asks his son. Hotspur finishes chewing a mouthful of steak.

‘He says we need better integrated websites. An internet brand, of sorts. Apparently he could deal with it, for some inflated price of course.’

‘I’ll get Danielson to look into it. We need you making these contacts, not sorting out the details.’ 

‘Is there anyone else I need to speak to?’ 

Henry takes a sip of his expensive bottled spring water, considering his response.

‘We need something decisive on that fucking Lancaster boy. He needs to be finished off once and for all. Lancaster King needs the pressure put on them - in the right atmosphere, Henry Lancaster will have to take my threats seriously. Right now, I’m little more than a joke he can deflect and discredit. People aren’t willing to admit the self-made man actually screwed everybody over to get there.’

Hotspur looks at his father, evaluating him. Henry is caught in the past and his son knows it. He runs his business on an outdated model, keeping afloat only by finding good counsel and throwing money at them. It won’t last forever. Soon, the new generation will start to rise up, and Hotspur wants to be in a good position when that happens. Like standing on top of them, laughing at the world. Kate’s ambitious too; together they could rule everything.

‘The internet can make or break a person in a day. The problem is, keeping them broken. So far, Hal has always bounced back. The press like him too fucking much. That waste of space has never done anything useful in his life, other than handing us his ruin on a plate, but he just won’t die.’ Hotspur means that symbolically, of course.

‘His father funds his madness and covers up his messes, to avoid embarrassment.’ Henry stabs his fork into the last mouthful of his meal, a bit of steak and asparagus. ‘It’s fucking ridiculous. He’s terrified of what the boy will actually do without any ties to his father.’

A waiter comes and clears away their plates. Hotspur looks decisive.

‘I’ll sort something out, father. Once me and Edmund have dealt with it, the media will be begging for someone to kick Henry Lancaster and his joke of a family out of the limelight.’

Henry nods slowly in approval. His son is hot-headed, but he commits. That girl Kate is good for him: she makes sure he remembers that people are watching him, always, that he must think on his image. As much as the press like stories about Hal Lancaster, Henry knows that if they could get some dirt on Hotspur, they’d have a field day. How the mighty have fallen, etc. They’d better tread carefully. Kate knows it, her brother Edmund knows it, but he worries that Hotspur will forget. His son is so determined to prove himself better than that useless Hal that he could lose sight of everything else. Henry resolves to have a word with Edmund Mortimer, make sure he keeps an eye out for anything. The Northumberland Group can’t deal with the same scandal that Henry Lancaster has every week. That’d be copying.

-

Poins is well aware that tonight they look like someone has emptied a vat of symbolism straight onto them. The issue is, it’s difficult to dress for an angels and demons costume party without reflecting some inner truth or irony. None of them are quite sure who is throwing the party in question, only that it’s in some expensive flat in Bloomsbury, and if he thought anybody would appreciate it, he’d make a Gatsby reference. Hal would understand, but roll his eyes. It's just a party. They won’t stay long; it’s mostly an excuse to dress up and act up for a bit, before they head off somewhere else. Well, that and Jack wants to drink other people’s alcohol.

They sit in a taxi, looking like they’re coming to judge the sins of those who inhabit the night. Hal, brightest of them all, is dressed in white. White t-shirt, tight white jeans, white boots, and a white scarf draped around his neck. His fair curls only add to the effect, made as fluffy as possible for the express purpose of being angelic. The almost infamous cheekbones are devilishly handsome, catching the shadows of the night in the dimly lit vehicle. He is restless and excited, unable to sit still. Recently things have been quiet. Gossip has been spreading, people have been talking, but there’s been no action.

In contrast, Poins has taken the role of the devil, wearing his customary black in the form of a v-neck top and jeans that match Hal’s in negative. A bright red bow tie mockingly adorns his neck and he’s stuck cardboard horns to a fedora he just happened to own. There's been a lot of costume parties since they've known each other. He’s wearing a lot of eyeliner, and the dark eyes have the effect of giving him an added layer of threat, although he undermines it somewhat by laughing at Hal’s jokes. Jack sits facing them, wearing an almost terrifying scarlet shirt that matches his red face too well. Outfits are not top on his list of things to care about. He makes a good demon, though. Their group is completed tonight by Doll, who has decided she likes them enough to hang out with them on her night off. She’s looking for excitement. Her dress is silver and her shoes white, but she’s an angel you don’t want to mess with.

Jack’s spinning one of his usual stories, but there’s something off. He’s still angry at Hal and Poins for turning him once again into a figure of ridicule, though he’s not said much to them about it. They’d only turn that into a joke too, he knows. He’ll be able to think of something. Meanwhile, he throws vague jibes their way, not really trying.

‘Not sure if your costume suits you, Hal.’

‘Why, Jack, I’m a complete angel.’ 

He smiles sweetly and winks at Poins, who grins.

The flat they’re looking for is the penthouse, so they leave the taxi and ascend to the heavens. The staircase is full of people similarly dressed: Poins wonders if the other inhabitants mind. The place itself is busy, a living breathing room of opposites who might not be as different as they think. Jack disappears off in search of a drink, noticeably older than most of those he passes. The others have only been standing around for a few moments when a woman in a bright red dress accosts Hal, talking in a familiar tone as she drags him to one side.

‘Who’s she?’ Doll asks Poins interestedly.

‘A woman Hal slept with a few months ago,’ he replies. She stares at him. ‘What?’

‘You remember that?’ He shrugs, but now he’s a devil shrugging, so casual isn’t working very well. Doll shakes her head. ‘God, you two. Will she be joining us, do you think?’

‘Unlikely, seeing as he’s coming back, alone.’ He nods his head in the direction of Hal, who’s now almost back beside them. Doll wonders if Poins realises how he acts around his friend, but she’s not going to be the one to ask. She’s seen them on those evenings, that begin like this one with lingering glances that they seem unable to stop, and end with them appearing distinctly more disheveled than they started off. Nobody else notices, so she keeps quiet. Maybe she’s coming to the wrong conclusion, she thinks, but she doubts it. She's no idiot.

‘Nothing happening there?’ the devil asks the angel. Hal leans forward, as if telling a confession.

‘I mustn’t fall prey to wanton temptresses: I am an angel, after all.’ Poins holds Hal’s gaze, the hints of a smirk dancing on his lips.

‘We wouldn’t want you to fall, now,’ he says eventually, the words slipping out slowly and barely sounding. Despairing, Doll thinks she’d better take action, before this turns into yet another media event. They look on the brink of forgetting anyone else exists. Though the dark of the party, she can see their eyes dancing, smiles widening, and she knows she was not wrong.

‘Guys, let’s go find a drink,’ she suggests, her words snapping them back to the party. They spot Jack as they make their way through the crowd, chatting to some people who are clearly not interested in what he’s saying. Then again, very few people there care what anybody else is saying. There’s a mix of crazy rich kids and opportunist hangers on, everyone too loud and too assertive. Hal grabs a bottle of champagne, popping the cork nonchalantly and swigging straight from the bottle before passing it to his best friend. Doll’s already mixing herself a gin and tonic from the ingredients on the side: working even on her night off.

By the time the bottle is empty, Jack is back.

‘This party’s shit,’ he remarks, his face looking sour. ‘Nobody here knows how to have fun.’

‘Too busy passing divine judgement,’ mutters Poins. ‘Or diabolical judgement. One or the other.’

‘Think I’ll go for both,’ Hal says, stealing the hat from the other guy’s head and placing it upon his own. Poins raises a hand and tilts it to a jaunty angle.

‘And now you’re a fallen angel.’

The symbolism is too much, so they have to leave.

‘The fallen angel decrees we must leave and go to pastures new.’

‘Where?’ Doll asks, pouring another drink to hurriedly finish before they go. Hal pauses, thinking.

‘Karaoke. There’s that little place in Soho…’ And following that authoritative voice, they vanish into the night, leaving behind the other demons and the angels in their own posh little corner of pandaemonium.

This time they’re walking, creeping through the streets, or more accurately, creating ruckus through the streets. Doll is singing loudly, a warning about all the songs she intends to entertain them with in karaoke form. Jack apparently found an endless supply of alcohol in the half hour or so they were at the party, as he has become much jollier and much harsher simultaneously.

‘They’re all fucking twats, Hal, you shouldn’t listen to any of them,’ he shouts dramatically. ‘Writing shit for a living.’

‘I know, Jack,’ Hal placates lightly. ‘I don’t.’

‘And that little bastard Hotspur doesn’t help,’ Jack continues. ‘Stirring the shit by being all perfect. Got such a stick up his own arse he don’t know how to have any fun. He’s just jealous.’

‘Envious, Jack, envious,’ mutters Poins.

‘Don’t you be a smart arse.’

‘I’ll be who the fuck I want, thank you very much.’

‘What, a conniving little coward who trails around after Hal doing nothing for himself?’ 

Poins lunges towards the older man, anger in his eyes.

‘Watch what you say, you fucking lazy old scrounger.’ Hal grabs him and pulls him back.

‘Leave it, Ed.’ His tone is soft, calming. He leaves a placating hand on Poins' arm for a moment, a warning as well. They walk on, stepping over the rubbish littering the pavements. Doll keeps up a monologue, filling in the gaps as the others stay quiet.

The place they’re looking for is a little bar in a Soho side street, a place they’ve been a few times before when they want to sing badly and drink lots. Doll smiles sweetly at the guy by the entrance and hands over a pile of Hal’s cash. Soon, they’re led through into their own room, accompanied by some random people Hal just found in the main bar. None of them look quite sure what’s going on, especially not as they’re about to do karaoke with a guy essentially dressed as Lucifer.

‘Who’s going first?’ Hal asks. Poins has taken refuge in a corner, leaning against a wall and somehow radiating sarcasm. Doll volunteers and heads towards the screen to select her song. She goes for Carly Simon’s ‘You’re So Vain’, belting it out whilst Hal orders drinks and Jack looks through the list of options. He’s got an agenda tonight.

Next up is one of their random newcomers, who provides background wailing whilst Hal downs a few shots and Doll steals a twenty pound note out of one of their new friends’ bags. She charms her way into getting the next song too, delighting them with a rendition of ABBA.

‘Which man are we giving her? It's after midnight,’ Poins leans over and asks Hal as they try to consume plenty of alcohol before the next song, which Hal has decided to take as his own.

‘Don’t know, do we have any spares? I’d say Jack, but I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.’ They giggle like schoolchildren who’ve insulted the teacher behind his back. ‘Anyway,’ says Hal with a serious face as the song winds down, ‘I’ve got to go and wow everybody with my pop star skills.’

As soon as the intro music starts to play, Poins bursts out laughing, with Doll not far behind. They make their way to stand on the edge of the vaguely stage-esque area, where Hal is already overdoing it with his dancing.

‘ _I come home in the morning light_ ,’ he starts to sing, by which point his two fans are caught between dancing and crying with laughter. Jack, however, looks vaguely displeased. He resents how easily attracting such attention comes to Hal, particularly tonight.

‘ _The phone rings in the middle of the night, my father yells what you gonna do with your life?_ ’ Hal prances around, singing into the cheap microphone as if this is his career-defining moment. His audience, made up of assorted drunk karaoke bar frequenters, are laughing, and Poins and Doll have become his backing dancers, dancing around each other and gracelessly mocking his performance. ‘ _But girls they want to have fun, oh girls just want to have-_ ’

Jack throws back a glass of scotch and glares. He knows what he’s going to sing next; it’ll be a gamble, teetering on the edge of laughing at Hal or mocking himself, but he’ll take it of course. That’s what he does. His hands are shaking, from alcohol and barely concealed rage that has been gathering for days and days. Once, he thinks, Hal was a naive little graduate, barely sure how to excel in the city, needing direction and guidance. Jack Falstaff was his saviour. He ought to remember that.

The song ends and Jack is waiting, ready, to fire back and steal the interest of everybody present. The opening music takes people a moment to recognise, but once they do, they’re captured in the moment. Doll is grinning, still standing at the front, whilst Hal and Poins are leaning against the wall, watching expectantly.

‘ _I’m gonna be a mighty king so enemies beware_ ,’ Jack begins, putting on the highest pitched voice he can muster. Everyone is laughing, but whether it’s with or at him is questionable. Possibly both. He looks at Hal, directing the song to hit its target. The other guy looks back, throwing off the attack with a chuckling smile. The outcome is uncertain.

At the line ‘ _everywhere you look I’m standing in the spotlight_ ’, Jack ramps it up a notch, imitating Hal from the previous song with a swaying walk and a bow that he gestures towards his target. Hal’s still smiling, his face a carefully drawn picture of mirth, but Poins is scowling and rolling his eyes. Two birds with one stone, Jack thinks vaguely, before getting caught up in his performance again. Everybody claps at the end. They’re uncertain quite what they just witnessed. The atmosphere has become palpable, slightly dangerous, despite the ridiculous song choice. Honour is at stake all of a sudden.

‘Did you like my song, Hal?’ Jack asks as Doll goes up to sing once again, this time going with the karaoke staple of Bon Jovi.

‘Loved it, Jack. Inspired.’

‘Didn’t know you liked The Lion King,’ taunts Poins, which earns him a warning hand on the shoulder from Hal. Tonight, jibes must be in the form of song, like they’re in some crappy musical show.

‘ _You give love a bad name._ ’

‘I’ve got a plan,’ Hal mutters into the ear of his friend. ‘Don’t worry.’

Immediately after Doll, Hal takes to the stage again. His chosen song starts with singing, so there’s no time for intro recognition before he launches into his retort.

‘ _Are you gonna take me home tonight? Ohhh, down beside that red firelight-_ ’

He’s dancing again, but this time it’s personal. Doll is swaying slightly, trying to avoid being caught between their argument.

‘ _Fat bottomed girls you make the rockin’ world go round._ ’

Jack tries to smile and laugh it off, but he’s turning vermillion and his shirt has been screaming anger all night. You can’t keep a demon calm. The mirth is even leaving Hal’s eyes, with flashes of bitterness taking hold for a split second at a time, showing how his angel persona hasn’t quite the heavenly virtue one might expect. This time as the song ends, Hal heads straight to buy another drink, whilst Jack schemes what he’ll come back with. The night is still escalating. Some stranger sings, but none of the four could tell you what the song is: Jack plots, Hal drinks, Poins stares and Doll worries. The scene is set.

‘Don’t be so irritated on my behalf,’ Hal tells Poins, choosing to interpret the stare as fury. He's partly right.

‘I just don’t see how this will end.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ he brushes it off, touching his friend’s arm for a moment. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

As the opening chords ring out, Doll wonders if this sing-off situation would be funny in a different context. It started off amusing. Jack shouts the words to The Clash, not even pretending to be singing this for any reason other than straight at Hal. It shouldn’t work, it shouldn’t make sense, but it does, painfully. He’s asking the question nobody wants to hear the answer to: am I redundant to you now? The question that dogs everyone in Hal’s life. Even Poins looks uncertain.

His words hang in the air. Suddenly, in walk two men in suits, looking serious. They head towards the front.

‘ _So if you want me off your back, well come on and let me know, should I stay or should I go?_ ’

Silence. One of the men has pulled the plug. Hal stands, gaping, not saying a word. Jack gulps, looking back at him.

‘Hal Lancaster,’ starts a suited man, unaware what he’s just stopped. ‘Your father wants to speak to you. You’ve got to come with us.’

Hal follows them out of the door silently. Nobody dares to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the songs. They needed to be ridiculous. Nobody knows how Jack knows songs from The Lion King either.


	3. Chapter 3

Henry sits, waiting. It’s half one in the morning and he should be at home, but instead he’s here at the office, staring blankly at paperwork and preparing for his son. He’s reached the end of his tether: the call that someone from the publicity department had seen him wandering the streets, dressed up and yelling with a company of riotous individuals had been the last straw. Business was about controlling the ways you drew attention to yourself, or else everything would fall apart. A lot of the time, he’d like nothing more than to cut his son off, tell him the company will go to Tom and leave it at that, but he can’t, because that would invite scandal and gossip to exceed even the worst story about Hal that’s been published so far. The accumulation of tales and complaints has reached the stage that Henry can’t even remember which ones he’s heard any more. That should make this meeting interesting.

Hal sits in the back of the car and watches the lights of the city go past. His mind is still full of karaoke, of the intensity of the battle and its aborted conclusion. He knows that he needs to sober up before he reaches the company offices, but there’s little he can do. They haven’t even offered him any water. All he can hear is the sound of engines and sirens and the occasional shout. Neither of the men are talking. His ears ring from the loss of sound.

Henry stares at his son as he walks in; all he can think is that the boy looks a fucking state. It’s obvious that he’s been drinking heavily: his reactions are off and his eyes out of focus, but this won’t stop either of them. Henry himself itches for a drink or a smoke. The latter is becoming an issue, what with the stress of his son and his company. Hal stands in the office, an expanse between them. He doesn’t sit down. Instead, he looks around, as if taking in the concept of an office.

‘I don’t know what I’ve done,’ Henry begins. It’s clearly the start of something, so Hal stays quiet, eyes darting round the room. After a dramatic pause, Henry continues. ‘To deserve such a disappointment. All I did was work my fingers to the bone-’ Well, Hal thinks, that’s a metaphor if he ever heard one. ‘-making this company what it is, securing a legacy for this family, and you go and threaten that by acting like a fucking disgrace. Constantly I hear reports about you and they’re never good. Gossip and scandal, all of it. You’re a fucking joke.’

Hal looks at him now, staring his father in the face. It’s difficult to tell if he’s defiant or ashamed and hiding it. Henry doesn’t take this well.

‘You’re no better than all those airy little nothings on the TV, all image and no substance, just a fucking mess. Go off to university and think that gives you the right to spend my money on nothing, wasting around with that pal of yours, out drinking the city into ruin.’

Hal gets the point. He’s the empty space in his father’s life, the zero where there should be a value. It’s not revolutionary: he was allowed to go off to Oxford in the first place because his father thought he might change there, seeing as his upbringing hadn’t made him the right son. He bows his head, however, in an act of humility. Henry stands and walks round his desk to face his oldest child.

‘Father, I’ll-’ Hal utters, but he chose the wrong moment.

‘You’ll give false little promises, of course, the same ones you probably give to those so-called friends of yours every night of the week. “Yes father, no father, three bags full father.” I won’t hear it. I hear enough about you, never mind from you.’

‘I’m going to-’ his son tries again. Apparently future action isn’t enough, because he’s cut off again.

‘And I’m told how Hotspur, precious Hotspur, has helped damn Percy do this or that, how he’s brokered a deal or been seen at a prestigious event with his pretty girlfriend, and I won’t why I can’t have that. Why my son has to be seen in the gutter with the scum of the earth.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ mutters Hal under his breath. Not quietly enough.

‘Oh really? And where were you tonight? Were you networking with important businessmen or setting a good example for your siblings? Were you helping the company? Oh right, no, you were parading the streets of London dressed like that.’ Henry gestured at his son’s attire as if he doesn’t even have the words to describe it. The devil horn hat is still perched atop his head, its jaunty angle even more pronounced than before.

‘At least I’m making a name for myself. At least people know who I am.’

‘For all the wrong fucking reasons,’ roars Henry. Hal takes a half step back. ‘I have the Northumberland Group breathing down my neck and people baying for my blood and I have to deal with your inability to keep out of the fucking tabloids. And they wonder why my blood pressure’s high.’

Hal has the grace to look slightly sorry at that. ‘It’s all-’

Henry’s hand smacks him bluntly in the face. He stumbles back, trying not to look weak. His father would just love that. All he can see is the white carpet, blurring slightly before his eyes, and he wonders why the hell anyone would have a white carpet. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Maybe, he thinks, his father has that to remind people they’re taking up his precious time. Hal looks up, staring at his father from under his eyebrows as he returns to full height.

‘Remember,’ Henry declares, his anger having lessened slightly from the sudden impact, ‘you’re not just ruining your own life. You’re ruining ours too. This family’s. If you don’t change, you’ll force me to do something drastic to protect my company. I can’t take another fucking person telling me how wonderful that Harry Percy is, while in the same breath smearing my own name through my son’s. Do something.’

On that note, Henry storms out of his own office, charging down the corridor and leaving the door to echo through the quiet building. He wants to go home and sleep. In a few hours he has to be up and running the company. Maybe he’ll take the morning off, he thinks, might be better for his health. Joan and his doctor nag, but there’s nothing he can do.

Hal, meanwhile, trails out of the door and looks around for somewhere to sleep. He doesn’t care anymore, he just wants to sleep off the burgeoning headache and not have his evening ruined by his father. Sadly the second option isn’t available anymore. The office is disappointing harsh and empty, but down the corridor he spots a sofa, a deep grey one probably meant for clients to wait and feel intimidated by the workplace. It’ll do him fine. He’s too tall for the thing, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor. Suddenly unable to keep his eyes open, he lies down, placing Poins’ hat upon his chest so he doesn’t crush it. As he drifts off to sleep, the last thing he sees before his eyes is the smiling face of the devil.

‘Hal, wake up!’ He grunts, refusing to open his eyes, then realises this isn’t his flatmate and he’s not in his bed. Memories of the previous night flood back and he forces himself awake. 

‘What?’ he asks, quickly noticing that the speaker is his sister Philippa. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I don’t have school, heard you were here, thought I’d visit,’ she responds with a smug smile. He knows Henry won’t like this: his father has never been impressed when his siblings show favour towards their eldest brother. Philippa looks at him appraisingly. ‘Why are you wearing glitter?’

Hal raises a hand to his face and sees that she’s right, that his fingers come away sparkling. Images flash in his mind: preparing to go out, putting the final touches on his outfit, Poins insisting he needed to shimmer like an angel for the full effect.

‘Costume,’ he mutters. ‘Can’t you tell?’

‘What are you? Angel gone bad?’ 

He shakes his head.

‘The hat’s not mine, it’s Poins’. I stole it.’

She nods, accepting this explanation, then seems to come to a realisation.

‘Did you talk to dad dressed like that?’ Philippa says, her voice a shade higher than before.

‘Yes.’

‘Shit, Hal, no wonder he was angry earlier. You’re dressed as an angel and you’re wearing glitter. Actually wearing glitter.’

‘And?’

‘God, you’re an idiot. Were you drunk?’ 

Hal pretends to think.

‘Possibly. He sent people to come and get me, we were doing karaoke.’ His sister shakes her head. He feels a bit ridiculous, being judged by a girl nearly ten years younger than him, but then again, he knows how stupid he must look right now. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half nine. I’m surprised you didn’t wake up. Come on, John’s got a coffee machine in his office, we can go steal some.’

Hal pulls himself to his feet, wondering when his younger brother got an office and his little sister started rating his life choices. Still, she was better than the rest of them, except perhaps Humphrey. Everyone stared as they passed: the big boss’s children apparently weren’t expected to be loitering in the hallways, or at least not the wayward one and the young one. They were probably questioning the glitter too. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal; Poins had been wearing actual make up. He barely speaks to his family though. Hal wonders if he should have made that choice, although he couldn’t have cut off Philippa or Humphrey, they were the sane ones, and Tom wasn’t too bad, when he wasn’t being steered by their father. As they go down a flight of stairs, Hal wakes up enough to pay attention to a detail Philippa had mentioned.

‘When you say you didn’t have school…’ He raises an eyebrow at her. She stares back, defiantly, then looks down.

‘Well, maybe I decided that I didn’t have school when I overheard dad telling Joan about last night, but somebody needed to come and rescue you from this place.’

‘I didn’t need rescuing.’

‘Maybe not, but you needed someone to make you move before dad walked down that corridor and exploded. People were taking bets about what he’d do.’

As they enter their brother’s office (which Hal is pleased to see is pretty damn small), John glares at them, but says nothing. He clearly doesn’t want to be in Hal’s presence or leave them alone in his office. Hal drinks the coffee, feeling life rush back into his system. His father had drained it all away. That, or the hangover.

‘You really should go to school,’ he tells Philippa loudly, proving to John that he can be a good influence.

‘And you really should set a better example,’ she retorts, pointing at the hat which is back on his head, with one of the cardboard horns bent out of shape. He rolls his eyes, calculating whether he’ll be able to get out of the building without running into any other family members. At that moment, the door opens.

‘Fallen angel?’ Tom asks as a greeting.

‘It was tiring being so perfect all the time,’ snarks Hal. Philippa laughs.

‘Well Mr Perfect,’ says Tom in an impressively earnest tone. ‘I’m here to urge you to leave, because our father doesn’t seem enthusiastic about you lingering around looking like...that.’ He waves his hand vaguely in Hal’s direction.

‘Seriously, what is wrong with this outfit?’ 

Hal does, however, leave then. He tells Philippa she should come and visit him soon and waves sarcastically at John. Back home, he’s surprised to see his flatmate lounging across the sofa, eating a bowl of cereal.

‘Don’t you have work?’

‘Day off,’ Poins replies. ‘Don’t you have a heavenly civil war to be instigating?’ Hal swats at his head. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Slept on some sofa in the company offices. Philly woke me up and laughed at the glitter, then I got kicked out. Apparently I was cluttering up the place.’

‘You’re cluttering up this place, fallen angel. Glad to see my hat’s okay.’

‘Your hat will always come back to you in one piece.’ He pauses for a moment, then remembers. ‘Oh, John’s got an office now. Didn’t expect that.’

‘People will insist on excelling whilst you hang around here, you vagabond.’ Hal swats him again. ‘How was your father?’ Poins is clearly not asking after his wellbeing.

‘Same old. I’m a fucking disgrace, y’know. He’s got obsessed with Hotspur being all brilliant though, don’t know who put that into his head.’

‘Some boring idiot?’ suggests Poins. His friend smirks.

‘They’ll see. I’ll stop everyone thinking Hotspur’s wonderful soon enough, I’m sure. You should have heard my dad: talking about Hotspur going to fancy parties with his pretty girlfriend and shit, as if he wants to swap us and get the deluxe son set with bonus dinner jacket and committed girlfriend.’

‘You’ve got a dinner jacket,’ Poins points out with a grin.

‘You just wait, I’ll do something about Hotspur,’ Hal promises, settling down on the sofa. ‘I will.’

-

The coloured chips are not on his side tonight. Jack fixes his eyes on them desperately, willing his own meagre pile to multiply before the next round. The cards have been going badly and even his usually good ability to bluff has let him down. He’s reached the point that he gets to far too often these days: Jack is about to run out of money.

Nobody here is particularly flush. They wouldn’t be at some back room poker game in a dodgy abandoned building if they were. The appearance of wealth is all that matters here, as you must avoid looking down on your luck or nobody will take you seriously, expecting perilously desperate plays and recklessness. Jack saves all his best outfits for this beaten up place.

‘All in.’ It’s a sad state, but he tells himself he wanted to leave anyway. He needs a drink. He wants to go to Minnie’s club, but he’s not sure if he wants to face Hal so soon. No, he decides, it’ll be fine, Hal’s the forgiving type. Boy can’t stay angry at anyone for long, he’s too friendly for that.Hal wants everyone to like him. Everyone but his father.

Jack watches as his last chips must be relinquished. He is out and he’d better scarper soon before they realise he can’t actually pay those round the table to whom he owes money. Technically, it’s everyone. Instead, he mutters his apologies and hands a decent looking watch to the guy he owes the most to. He stole the watch from Hal last time he was at his flat, knowing it would come in handy. Hal’s rich enough not to miss it. Maybe he’s a modern day Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to stop the poor being beaten up for their gambling debts. As he hurries along the dark streets towards his favourite haunt, he hopes that Hal is around and buying drinks, or he’ll have to sweet talk Minnie into giving him a tab again, which is getting progressively more and more difficult to achieve. It’s fine, he thinks, everybody hangs around Hal to scrounge stuff off him. Everybody who's down n their luck.

-

Hotspur smooths down his deep blue tie and waits for the journalist to appear. He wouldn’t have been so early, but he met his uncle beforehand for a quick pep talk at the same bar. Thomas Percy had gone on to a dinner, so now Hotspur’s left sipping his drink and tapping on his phone to make the waiting less of a waste of his time. This is the big one: major newspaper, time to tell his story properly, and fuck up Hal Lancaster on the way. He fiddles with the cufflinks Kate bought him for his last birthday impatiently. The bar is nice, tastefully decorated in dark wood and low lighting, but Hotspur itches, irrationally worried he’ll run into the media’s favourite party boy whilst he’s here.

‘Harry Percy?’ asks a voice from his side. He looks: woman, smart outfit, journalist’s smile. Standing, he sticks his hand out.

‘Call me Hotspur,’ he urges, summoning charm like it’s a magic trick.

‘Hotspur,’ she grins, possibly mocking, possibly not. ‘I’m Rachel Fielding.’

‘Nice to meet you, Rachel.’ They sit and she takes out a notebook and pen. Hotspur raises an eyebrow in interest.

‘I’m old-fashioned, maybe, but I do all my interviews this way. Find it creates a better atmosphere.’ He nods in understanding: his father has schooled him well in the importance of putting people at ease if you want something from them.

‘Doesn’t bother me either way. What are you drinking?’

‘Just a sparkling water, I’ll get it.’ Hotspur ignores her words and orders one from a passing waitress, whose job isn't actually to take orders. ‘Right,’ she begins as her water appears, almost instaneously. ‘Let’s get started, if that’s alright with you?’

‘Perfect.’ 

His face is a careful picture of happiness and ease, but his mind is busy plotting.

She starts off with generic questions about the company and about Kate, things to add background and tease out the ‘real’ Harry Percy. He makes scripted jokes about Kate being the force behind him and other banalities that his father would be proud of. Gotta play the nice guy before you can bring out the weaponry, he thinks.

‘Yes, it’s so important,’ she says in response to some comment about picking the right suit, ‘and now in a different direction. There’s been talk comparing you and Hal Lancaster, the son of Lancaster King’s director: your lifestyles, dealing with your fathers’ companies and so forth. Do you have anything to say about this?’

The opening he’s been waiting for. His uncle promised this would come up. It’s time to control what’s being said about the opposition even more openly.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do. The comparisons tend to be pretty flattering for me,’ He pauses to grin at her, sharing in the joke, ‘and I appreciate that, because I put in so much effort. I love my father and his company, which is more than you can say about Hal Lancaster, it seems. I’m not trying to cause problems here,’ He pauses again and takes a sip of drink, entirely for dramatic tension, ‘but it does look like Henry Lancaster needs to start looking for a new successor. One who prizes business over partying and causing scandal.’

Rachel leans forward eagerly.

‘Do you think the reports are true, then?’

‘I wouldn’t know. All I can say is this: if there’s that many rumours surrounding somebody, surely some of them are true? There must be the odd bit of wheat amongst the chaff.’ She nods encouragingly.

‘Between us,’ she says, but they both know that’s not true, ‘are there any you believe more than others?’

There’s a fine line between what he can and can’t say, but by now all this stuff is out there anyway, and Lancaster King seem to have given up trying to do anything but deny it all and stick their heads in the sand.

‘That he doesn’t give a damn about his father’s company might be a reasonable conclusion, considering the stories that are spread and how he doesn't try and stop them. I mean, there’s a certain loyalty you must have to your family, especially when they’re funding your lifestyle. I don’t understand how he could ignore that. Of course, this is just my opinion…’

‘What would you do in his position?’

‘Not be there in the first place?’ He laughs. ‘Seriously though, it’s getting too late for him to change. The press won’t reverse their opinion of you once it’s set in stone. I’d leave behind all those friends of his and get my life sorted out, that’s what I’d do, but I don’t know if he could now. He seems pretty attached to them.’

Hotspur knows he’s starting to go too far, but he can’t stop now, he’s doing so well. This interview was never really about him, not properly: it was about comparing him to Hal and him coming out on top. He runs a finger down his now empty glass as she asks her next question.

‘Why do you think that is?’

‘Oh, I don’t want to hazard to say, but...well, perhaps he’s become too much like them. Forgotten his responsibilities, you know?’

‘There’s that flatmate he has…’ she prompts, her voice trailing off in feigned uncertainty. Hotspur jumps on it.

‘Yes, he’s probably been a bad influence, but who knows? I won’t go into the rumours about those two.’ There's a line, after all. A line nobody crosses. She sees that he’s closing up again and goes for the finish.

‘And finally, do you have any hidden truths you’d like to reveal to us?’ He widens his smile until it threatens to overtake his face and leave to find a bigger home.

‘Maybe that I love Come Dine With Me?’ he offers. ‘There’s nothing like watching other people’s failing dinner parties to relax after a busy day.’ She laughs, obviously not having expected a real answer, and closes her notepad.

‘Thank you so much.’

-

‘Fuck.’

Hal saunters out of the bathroom at the sound of his flatmate’s voice.

‘That fucking bastard.’

‘What?’ he asks, standing in the middle of the room in just his underwear. Poins, standing in the kitchen area with a cup of coffee, throws an newspaper at him.

‘This just got sent round, presumably by your father’s lot.’

Hal looks down at the page in question. HOTSPUR HEATS UP reads the headline. It makes no sense, but it sounds good. His eyes dart down the article, taking heed of the fact there’s a picture of him at the bottom. A picture of him and Poins, angel and devil, on the dark streets on London. He didn’t even realise there’d been any paparazzi that night.

‘Why-’ he begins.

‘Just read it.’ Poins’ voice shakes with anger. Hal reads through the boring comments about Hotspur, his pathetic attempts at jokes that have been directly quoted and, most importantly, the part where the article talks about Hal. Where Hotspur rates his lifestyle and gives some kind of prophetic judgement on his lack of a future. The writer adds snide comments comparing them, although she’s only met half of her set, and chooses her details so carefully you’d think she’d only read a bad Wikipedia page on Hal if you didn’t assume it was purposeful. He sees what’s angered his friend. Nothing’s new, but it’s all so open, so apparently official, so tied up with the gospel of Hotspur the Great.

‘Shit,’ Hal mutters, for want of a better comment.

‘You know what’s going to happen? My family’s going to read this and won’t that be fucking wonderful. Read about how their son’s blamed for corrupting some businessman’s heir, complete with a fucking symbolic picture. You know what they think already.’ 

Hal steps closer.

‘I’ll do something.’

‘And look how he thinks he knows all about you, about everything. As if his life’s perfect. He lives a fucking sham of a life, pretending he has everything when he’s got nothing at all.’

Hal lets Poins rant, rambling on about them and Hotspur and anybody else he can think of, them both standing in a freeze frame in the kitchen. Meanwhile, he thinks carefully about what he can do about Hotspur. You don’t fucking mess with him and get away with it, he thinks, not when you make it so personal. Not when you paint his best friend as some evil influence. Not when you talk shit to the papers about him but won’t say it to his face. Eventually, Poins stops talking and stares at Hal like he’s looking for answers.

‘I’ll deal with him. I’m going to confront him,’ he states simply.

‘Hal, you can’t-’

‘Yes I fucking can.’ He’s shouting now. He didn’t mean to shout. ‘I have to, or he’ll keep on talking shit. He can’t mess with people’s lives to help their company. Can’t mess with your life.’

Poins looks up into the eyes of his taller friend, worry dancing behind the anger. ‘You’ve got to watch out Hal. They can really fuck shit up.’ Hal wants to break the seriousness of the moment, but he can’t.

‘I will. But I’m doing something about it.’

‘Fine, but be careful. And we’re going out tonight.’ Hal’s not going to argue with that.

-

Poins sits at the bar, staring off into the distance of the club and seeming quite obviously fed up. It’s busy but not packed, a typical weekday for the place. Minnie is sat beside him, looking sympathetic. She feels a strange kind of protectiveness for the young guy: as much as she likes Hal, sometimes she wonders if their friendship is keeping Poins from doing anything with his life other than cruising along, wasting time and ignoring everybody else. She knows for a fact that his father refuses to speak to him while he still runs around with Hal.

‘He’s going to go to that stupid party and fight with Hotspur and it won’t solve anything.’ She jumps out of her reverie and pays attention to what he just said.

‘What party?’

‘Some rich kid one. You know: huge house, expensive alcohol and the hope of the country going up in smoke.’ Minnie wonders how much he’s had to drink. ‘He only goes to them to get in the papers and cause a fuss.’

‘Maybe you should just ignore it all and keep out of trouble yourself,’ she suggests. It’s worth a try. He looks so damn fed up, like someone said he could never have what he wants in life. She knows the feeling.

‘God knows what he’d do. Anyway, they’ve said shit about me now.’

‘People’ll forget.’

‘They won’t.’ He looks across the room to where Hal is sitting on a table, chatting to group of women in brightly coloured outfits, seemingly without a care in the world. The evening’s not going well: Jack’s in a bad mood and has stalked off somewhere after shouting at Pete, Hal’s playing up for any crowd that’ll have him and, unbeknownst to Minnie, Poins is wondering how much he can drink before Minnie’ll notice and say something (later he’ll regret this, when he’s being carried home by a surprisingly more sober Hal).

‘It’ll all die down,’ she tries to reassure him. He nods, but his eyes tell a different story.

-

‘Harry, the food’s here!’ Kate calls out, unsure if her boyfriend is listening. She wanted to go out and eat, but he claimed he was too busy so she ordered takeaway instead, and even then he doesn’t seem to have the time. Since that interview, he’s been far too focused in her eyes, becoming obsessed with ruining Hal Lancaster and bringing down the company. The table is already set, waiting for occupants and food.

Five minutes later, there’s no sign of him, so she storms off to his office.

‘Harry, dinner!’ She feels like some stereotype of a wife shouting that. It makes her itch, but he won't listen otherwise.

‘I’m coming,’ he replies, but his face is firmly focused on his computer screen. She can see a web page from some trashy gossip site, all bright colours and oversized text.

‘No you’re not.’

‘I just have to finish reading this article.’ She sighs.

‘And the next, and the next. You’ve become obsessed.’

‘I’ve got to find out the rumours. I’ve got to find out if I can prove one of them to be true. The article was a start, but this is war.’

‘No, this is dinner.’ 

Sensing defeat, he stands up.

‘Fine, Kate, but you know how important this is.’

She says nothing. They eat in silence, Hotspur risking indigestion for the sake of time. His eyes are unfocused as his concentration skips off elsewhere, trying to work out how he can bring down a whole company on his own, or at the very least, one man. Sometimes he shakes with the possibility of it all. Kate just doesn’t understand, he thinks, but she’ll appreciate it one day. She will.

They finish eating and she says the one thing he’s been avoiding to confront, “What if none of it’s true?’ He shakes his head, shakes it off.

‘It has to be. I’ll find the truth. He can’t be that good at spreading rumours. Something true must have got out.’

She sighs. ‘Won’t you just spend one evening doing something normal, like watching a film or going out to eat?’

‘Kate, don’t you see, this is bigger than us, it’s a whole empire I might be able to topple. Like that game with the blocks, you know the one I mean.’

‘Jenga?’ She wonders where he’s getting these similes from.

‘That’s the one. It’s more than some boring evening out. It’s my life.’

‘What about me? Aren’t I part of your life?’ He tries to smile reassuringly at her, but even that isn’t convincing.

‘Of course, but right now, I have to focus on the business, on getting at Lancaster King through Hal. Henry’s screwed us over in the past, so now we’ll screw him over. It’s all fair.’

Not to me, Kate thinks, but she doesn’t bother voicing that. Soon enough, he’ll have got over this obsession and she has better things to do than argue with him about it. She just hopes he doesn’t topple himself instead.

-

This time, Hal is prepared to see his father. For once it’s out of choice: he read the past few emails he’d received from the dreaded publicity department and decided it’d be good to put in an appearance. He’s gone for a three piece Prada suit to counteract the impression of his last outfit and to point out that today, he’s going to talk business (although he has added a pair of unnecessary sunglasses so that he doesn’t conform to his father’s standards too well). It’s half five, because if he’s going to do anything his father might like, he’s going to do it at the sort of time that suits him, and he has to be quick because he’s meeting Poins here afterwards to go for cocktails so that the suit isn’t wasted entirely on sobriety and unappreciative business types. He strides through the lobby, hoping to spot a few members of the publicity department so they can see him when he’s not sleeping on a sofa or being photographed whilst drunk.

By the time he’s reached his father’s office, he’s already caused at least two people to stop and openly stare. He waved each time, smiling sweetly as they gaped. If Poins was there, he’d have made some joke about his looks having the ability to render people immobile, Hal knows. Sometimes he thinks he needs his friend just to mock him and keep his ego in check. He remembers having to bring Poins to see his father before they moved into their flat, like some kind of strange background check that involved Henry scanning the other guy up and down and pronouncing him ‘okay’ before returning to his work. They decided afterwards that it was a test to see if he’d have the guts to actually stand in front of the man. God knows, a lot of people wouldn’t. Jack openly admits that fact himself once he’s had a drink or two.

Henry hides his shock at seeing his oldest son well, only being betrayed by a slight widening of the eyes. Hal didn’t bother calling ahead. He feels he shouldn’t have to.

‘Yes?’ the elder Henry Lancaster asks.

‘Just thought I’d pop in,’ smiles Hal, at ease, ‘and reassure you and the publicity department that I’m going to do something about Harry Percy. You know, after that article that was so very nasty about me and my connection to this place.’ Very few can skirt the line between sincere and sarcastic like he is: truth and jokes intermingling as one.

‘And how are you planning on doing that?’ Henry raises his eyebrows in a challenge.

‘By proving he’s not so perfect himself.’ His father still looks incredulous. ‘I’ll do it, just you wait and see.’

‘I won’t hold my breath. I have a meeting, so you’ll have to go.’ Hal expected nothing less. He follows his father out of the office and down the corridor, where he spots Poins chatting to his brother Humphrey, both of them laughing at something.

‘Humphrey! What are you doing here?’ Hal exclaims. His youngest brother is supposed to be at university.

‘I’m in town to see a comedy gig tonight, thought I’d stop by and say hi to people beforehand. Didn’t expect to see you or Poins here, though.’

Henry butts in before Hal can say a word in response. ‘Your big brother was just promising to stop Hotspur spreading stories about him. Not sure how he’ll achieve that, seeing as they’re probably all true.’

‘Dad!’ Humphrey berates. ‘Leave him alone.’ Hal rolls his eyes. Why did he have to get the two outspoken siblings on his side, he wonders. Humphrey even has the same fair hair as him, so maybe he was doomed from the start. Henry says nothing, though, just walks off towards his meeting.

‘Nice try, bro, but he really is convinced I’m a waste of space. No matter. I’m going to do it anyway. Not for him.’

‘Well, good luck. Nice suit, by the way.’ Humphrey looks almost as out of place as Hal did in the angel costume, wearing a student uniform of t-shirt and jeans, even though they’re more expensive versions than a lot of students might wear. However, he’s not also wearing the disdain of the company director, which helps his image somewhat.

‘I can make an impression when I want to.’ 

Poins smirks. ‘You can make an impression alright.’ Hal winks at him in response and Humphrey shakes his head.

‘Do you two do this on purpose?’ 

Hal looks innocent. His brother's no danger, not this one at least.

‘Do what?’ They laugh. ‘Anyway, it was wonderful to see you, but we’ve got to be off, there are a great number of cocktails with our names on them. See you soon, bro.’

Hal and Poins turn and walk towards the lift. Humphrey watches them go and wonders what his brother has in mind that makes him confident enough to turn up and see their father. If anyone’s an expert on gossip and rumour, it’s his eldest brother, but Humphrey really can’t see how even he can shut Hotspur up. From what he’s heard, that guy’s determined. It could be a dangerous combination.


	4. Chapter 4

Hal stares at himself in the mirror for a moment as he slips his arms into the white shirt and slowly does up the buttons. It fits perfectly. You can only tell up close, but the buttons have black and silver thread fastening them to the material. The devil’s in the detail. Next, he pulls on the trousers of his black Gucci suit, chosen because it was the tightest fitting one in the shop (the face of the assistant when he made Poins assess this was priceless). He runs his finger down a thin grey tie, considering it against a slightly lighter one. People have got to stop buying him fucking ties, he thinks. They won’t make him change his lifestyle with a piece of neckwear.

The tie snakes its way around his neck and all of a sudden, he looks almost ready for this party. He looks in the mirror again, running his hands through his hair. Instead of smart shoes, he puts on dark grey boots over his black socks. They are, however, ridiculously expensive, to match the clothing and the flat and the lifestyle. Not everything he has costs a lot: only the things that matter, those which people will see or care about, and very occasionally, the stuff he actually wants himself. You’re not meant to see the difference. Especially not tonight. Tonight is for image. Tonight is for confrontation.

He steps out of his bedroom to get a second opinion on the clothes. As his usual sidekick isn’t invited to the stupidly posh party, instead he’s been sitting on the sofa eating Doritos and waiting for the inevitable moment when Hal wants his advice. There's a routine.

‘There will be a jacket,’ Hal feels the need to point out as he spins around to display his outfit. Poins nods slowly, then beckons Hal over to where he is sitting, lounging on the sofa with his feet on the shiny black coffee table. Everything is black and white and metal; the white stuff tends to last the shortest. There are hazards to bringing the party back to your flat, but it’s a price Hal’s willing to pay. Poins wipes his hands, then starts to arrange Hal’s messy curls into some semblance of a style.

‘You’ve got to start bothering with your hair,’ he berates under his breath. ‘You really can’t spend that much on a suit and then leave your hair how it dried.’

‘Looks fine like that.’

‘Maybe,’ Poins concedes, but he doesn’t stop fiddling with it. ‘There, that’s better. The “smartly dressed rebel” needs artfully tousled hair,’ he mocks with a grin. They’ve been through this plenty of times.

‘But that’s what I’ve got you for,’ Hal mutters back. They both pause.

‘Your hair’s sorted,’ says Poins in a voice slightly too high-pitched. Hal steps back. It’s not the intimacy. It’s what he said. It’s that subject they don’t discuss.

‘I’ll go put the jacket on.’ He knows he didn’t need to say that, but he wanted to say something, something that doesn’t involve implicit commitment.

With his outfit complete, he looks once again in the mirror. Poins is right: his hair does look much better now. He knows he has to look better than Hotspur, because every point in his corner will count. Hal stares at himself until his own face is a stranger. Tonight has to go right and he won’t have any of his usual friends around, just the acquaintances from these sorts of things. These youthful rich kid events are the only remnant of Hotspur’s kind of world that he tends to bother with; they’re great for press coverage and scandal, because at least half the people there want to rebel against someone or another. He bypassed that stage long ago. They're amateurs.

‘Good luck.’

Hal turns and sees Poins standing in his doorway, smiling apologetically. Of course, Hal realises as his brain stops thinking about the upcoming party for a moment, he’s blaming himself for that moment. Neither of them can handle anything past ‘we’re flatmates right now’. There’s too much lurking in the white space beyond that: too much that passes between them without them talking about it, too much history that they cannot ignore forever. Hal knows he has to leave, but that he can’t leave his friend blaming himself, so he makes one of those split second decisions that people would be surprised to hear he makes far less often than they might imagine. Quickly, without hesitation, he moves towards the door, mutters ‘thanks’ and kisses the other guy softly on the lips, just for a split second. His momentum keeps him going and Poins’ shock stops him from moving. Hal pauses right before he opens the front door.

“Once more into the night,” he declares dramatically, affixing his trademark grin to his face like the final part of his outfit.

-

Camera flash. Hotspur turns his head, dazed. Kate, hand on his arm, directs him through the people, dragging him into the real world when he forgets to engage. She’s had to deal with this a lot recently: his mind is only working in certain directions, completely ignoring other things that he doesn’t deem important enough. 

The air resonates with talk and laughter, but Hotspur can’t pick out any of the words. Apparently anybody in their early twenties with a certain level of monetary funds has been invited to the party, Hotspur notes with vague disgust as he watches a recently famous singer talking with a young socialite on the steps outside the house. The whole thing is meant to be for some earl’s son’s birthday, although nobody really cares. Nobody ever cares what these things are ostensibly for: one day, he thinks, they might give up pretending they’re for specific occasions at all. The house is large and out of the way; the stream of taxis arriving is endless. Exclusive doesn’t quite define it: it’s all about money. Hotspur fiddles with an expensive cufflink and looks around for the person he’s built into an arch-nemesis. The notion appeals to some dramatic sense within him.

‘Come on, let’s get a drink,’ Kate urges. He nods, looking properly at her. She’s beautiful tonight; he can’t even describe it, not truly. It’s flashes like this when he remembers that life is varied, and that whatever his latest project is, it’s not the only thing in existence. Unfortunately, the flashes don’t last. For starters, he’s already noticed at least one guy look at her with vague suspicion and he has a horrible feeling that he knows why. Some of the people here don’t live in the real world at all. He follows the lead of his girlfriend and goes inside, looking with disdain at anyone who is surprised by the grandeur of the place. He knows that’s the effect they were going for.

A girl runs past them carrying a tiny white dog and shouting loudly about someone called Timothy. Hotspur shakes his head. These things are always a strange mixture of rich kids showing off that they’ll be the next big thing and the crazy ones trying to waste their money and reputations in one go. He and Kate come for the contacts, the image. In one room a bar area has been set up, manned by a selection of people in black and white uniforms who he thinks must have been pretty desperate for work if they agreed to do this party. He grabs a martini from a tray, hoping to god it’s gin and not vodka.

Two martinis later, he’s playing the young businessman much better. Kate has disappeared off to socialise and he’s standing around with some random guys just out of Cambridge, half listening to their mundane conversation in the hope of finding out something interesting and half looking out for Hal. Surely people would have mentioned if they’d seen him. He’s mainly here to try and get some truth out of the media’s favourite rebel, hopefully once he has drank enough to actually share such facts. It’s the only chance Hotspur can think of to see Hal out of his natural habitat of the disgusting clubs he usually frequents. Here, beneath the layers of extortionate clothing and gilded smiles, there’s a kind of honest desperation that makes everything a little bit less controlled. They have the money to do what the hell they want, after all.

Unbeknownst to Hotspur, Hal has turned up. He’s standing outside drinking out of the bottle of scotch he had to stop off and buy on the way. All he could think was how much he needed a drink to get through this, how so much rested on doing this right and stopping the guy who shared his name but not his outlook on life. Don’t be a stuck up dick to everyone, not openly anyway, or you won’t get anywhere. People swarm around him, mostly those interested in emulating him, but he brushes them off with vague comments and a fitting lack of interest. They all assume that this is just not the sort of party for him, not wild or shocking enough. He’s already loosened that carefully picked tie. Rebel.

Eventually, he decides that he’d better grace indoors with his presence. A couple of girls follow him, probably hoping he’ll notice them through extensive stalking, he thinks with a smile. If only he had Jack to send to get rid of them, he’s great at that. Nobody wants a slightly creepy fifty year old talking to them instead of Hal. They don't see the fun side of him. The gambler would love it here, Hal knows: free drinks, people to sweet talk and steal from. He also knows Jack steals from him, but he’s never said anything.

Inside is full of bodies draped in designer labels, drinking and smoking and flirting. He strolls though them, swigging scotch and adding comments to other people’s conversations. They laugh and smile with him, whether they mean it or not. Nobody’s going to openly question Hal Lancaster at this party. No one but the person he’s looking for. Music booms from one room, some kind of jazz funk thing that somebody probably believed was cool and edgy. He dances along to it as he walks, a kind of strange parody of dancing that people watch in awe. It’s as if, he thinks, they don’t realise how easy it is to be like this.

Hotspur spots Edmund first, pushing his way past some chanting guys with ridiculously upper class accents in order to get to a drink. He waves at Kate’s brother and then immediately sees Hal walking through the doorway, acting the part of the uncontrollable party boy down to the half full bottle of scotch that Hotspur wants to roll his eyes at how clichéd it is. At least that sorts out the drunkenness issue, he thinks, although he’s not sure how high Hal’s alcohol tolerance could be. If the media’s to be believed, it could be very low or almost infinite. There’s no room for middle ground. He starts to make his way through the crowd, trying to look casual and move with intention. He’s barely halfway across the room when Hal waves sarcastically at him. It’s at this point that Hotspur realises maybe this won’t be as easy as he thought: maybe the lazy waster has actually prepared for this too.

‘Hotspur! I read a wonderful interview with you recently,’ shouts Hal, his voice seeming to make everybody else’s slightly quieter. He’s a parody of himself. ‘You weren’t very nice about me or my friends though. Maybe we should make up.’

‘I only said what everybody thinks, I’m afraid,’ he smiles in response. ‘You’ve gained yourself quite a reputation.’ 

By now they’re properly standing in front of each other. A few people are watching, but most are preoccupied with their party experience.

‘You don’t believe all their lies, do you?’ Hal asks in mock hurt, pulling a sad face. He holds it for a few seconds, then break out in laughter. ‘Oh little Harry Hotspur, you’re very good, but you really don’t understand.’

Hotspur can’t tell if he’s off his face or actually has some greater understanding, but before he can respond, he feels his arm being grabbed.

‘Harry, come on,’ says Kate, her eyes darting between the two of them. ‘This isn’t the place for a showdown.’

He wants to fight her, say no, this is the perfect place for a showdown, but he doesn’t, he turns and leaves, heading straight towards a drink. His hands are shaking.

‘The paparazzi are here,’ she whispers in his ear as he sips champagne. ‘You fight in public, it’s news in seconds.’

Hal, meanwhile, is off getting lost in the party. Hiding amongst the music and finishing his scotch sounds like a perfect plan until the opportune moment, so he finds a place to stash his jacket (knowing Poins would be horrified if he was there to see that, such disdain for such an expensive item) and dances with rich girls who want to rebel in a noncommittal way. Around him, people lie and trick and create entirely new versions of themselves, but they are all protected by the knowledge that they have the money or the background to keep these pretenses up. Money protects lies; Hal’s been brought up to recognise that from a young age. He sees the flashes of cameras and isn’t surprised. Regardless of what they say, these things are like free publicity for many of the attendees.

A fight breaks out somewhere nearby. Glasses smash and people shout. The noise snaps Hal out of his trance and reminds him that he came with a purpose. Time to check up on the golden boy.

The boy in question has been drinking almost exclusively since they parted. Kate stormed off after she pointed this fact out and he snapped back at her that she didn’t understand the stress of the situation. He knows he needs to apologise, but he just needs to deal with Hal first and then they can leave this place behind. Soon he’ll be too busy with the company for these things, but for now they’re a useful way to find out who the hot young things are. He stares at the glass that held an Old Fashioned just a moment ago. He doesn’t even care much for cocktails, but he’s been sitting drinking them for a while now.

Hotspur stands and stumbles. His head is fuzzy, which he wasn’t expecting. Somebody calls out his name, but he ignores them and leaves the room, wandering down a corridor in the vague hope he’ll find Hal and can just ask him whether any of the rumours are true. Maybe he’ll be drunk enough for that to work. Deciding that he won’t find Hal on the ground floor, he makes his way up a grand staircase, lined with the odd person who hasn’t managed to make it all the way up the mountain. It’s less busy up there: a place for secrets and transactions more than partying. He peers through doors, seeing glimpses of a library and a huge bathroom. Anything closed he doesn’t venture into; he’s not stupid. Finally, he enters a smaller room made up of a piano, a chaise longue and a sofa, with huge glass doors that open onto a balcony. They are open, letting a refreshing breeze into the room that he moves towards automatically after the heat of the party. Shit, he thinks, I should go and find Lancaster, but that just angers him, how the guy can get away with being so irresponsible and uncaring and still he’s here at the same place as Hotspur as if they’re alike.

His opposite number has seen him going upstairs, however, and is following his footsteps. Hal is planning what to say, deciding whether to go for friendly or threatening. He never gets to make the choice. As soon as he enters the room, it’s clear that Hotspur won’t respond to friendly.

‘You fucking little-’ Hotspur begins, but he didn’t plan this out, didn’t pick an insult, so he leaves them all open. Hal laughs, his whole face lighting up with mirth. He’s seeing how ridiculous this is now. In front of him is a drunk young businessman, who’s good at his job, but seems to think that Hal represents some kind of problem. He’s not wrong, but still, it’s funny in Hal’s eyes. The image of them at this party is funny. Nobody sees quite how funny this all is.

‘Stop laughing. That’s your problem, isn’t it? You can’t take anything seriously.’

‘I take things seriously,’ says Hal, walking further into the room. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘So are you.’

‘Maybe, but if there’s one thing you should've learnt from your quest to utterly discredit me, it’s that I can take it, unlike you.’ 

Hotspur sways, glaring manically. Hal’s still smiling, wondering if his goal might be even easier to achieve than he thought. One rogue photographer gets a snap of this face off and suddenly Hotspur’s not the perfect angel he once was seen to be.

‘It makes no difference.’

‘No? What are you after - a new thing to accuse me of? I’m not sure if loitering near pianos is all that shocking.’

‘Proof that something’s true,’ Hotspur reveals, trying to make it sound like a challenge.

‘Really? Not the best place for it, is it? It’d be better to be on the streets, in those clubs where I throw my life away, rather than trying to tempt me into some confession, wouldn’t it?’

Hotspur feels his rage build up; he should be the one asking the questions, he should be the one with the upper hand.

‘You’re a fucking waste of space, you know that? All you have is a bunch of rumours, nothing real.’

‘And what do you have exactly? A perfect life? I don’t think so. I think it’s all a lie,’ Hal taunts. He needs to keep him angry and wait for some journalist to turn up.

‘I've got more than you. A job and a relationship. And I don’t hang around with drunks and losers and whores.’

‘Fuck off about my friends. I bet your girlfriend’s only with you for the image. You seem pretty boring.’ It’s not sophisticated, but maybe this was never going to be. Hal never wanted a theatrical fight; a win behind closed doors, not the public domain. Don’t air the real plans. 

‘Oh, piss off back to your flat and leave the real people alone. You’re a child.’

‘Really, I’m the child? Daddy’s not here to protect you now Hotspur.’ 

Perhaps sober, Hotspur would have been able to argue back properly, rather than become more enraged with each successive accusation. However, intoxicated as he is, he simply wants to shut Hal up, to stop him twisting the situation to his advantage. He strides forward and before Hal can realise what is going on, he swings his fist back and punches him in the face. Hal stumbles backward, clutching his eye.

‘Not so fucking full of it now, are you?’ roars Hotspur, breathing heavily. At last, Hal got the reaction he was looking for: people rush into the room, only a few, but it seems so many more to Hotspur, as if they’re chasing him. 

‘I only punched him,’ he shouts desperately, unsure what’s going on. A camera flashes and people call out. He raises his hands and starts to back away, wishing there was something to hand he could throw at them, keep them at bay. People must not misunderstand.

Hal looks up, the shock of the punch over. There are more people now, maybe eight or so, and Hotspur thrashing away at them as he backs out onto the balcony. His words are a jumble of insults directed at Hal and at the press. A few of them in particular are following him, trying to get the best photo or the most exclusive angle. They’ll get that alright. The room gets louder as others enter, drawn by the yelling. Hal moves forward and, as he does so, he sees what’s going to happen. It all becomes horrifically clear.

‘Don’t-’ he begins, but it’s too late, he’s too far away. His words would have no impact. Hotspur, driven to some kind of frenzy by alcohol, rage and fear, reaches the edge of the balcony and its stone fencing, climbs up onto it to escape the people whilst swinging punches, and finally, like a baby bird learning to fly, slips on the stone and falls. The people who’ve now become a crowd, a mob, hold their breath, but they’ve no way to tell how he is. Some cry out and almost everyone rushes for the door, fighting to make it down first. They don’t really care how he is, Hal knows as he stands frozen, buffeted by the tide of people. They want to be there first, see it first, read all about it. He has a terrible feeling that he knows what has happened.

He’s right.


	5. Chapter 5

To say there’s been a shitstorm is an understatement in Henry Percy’s eyes. Some have remarked, behind his back mostly, that it’s uncaring of him to react so stoically, to keep going, but these aren’t people with a towering company to run, after all, and they know nothing of survival. Privately, he sits and wonders if there’s anything he could have done. Currently top of his to-do list is killing that fucking Lancaster boy. It’s only been two days and already he’s deciding between taking down Lancaster King Ltd or just sending someone to beat the shit out of Henry’s son in retaliation. His only real move so far has been to scream down the phone to his lawyers to make those journalists pay, the ones so messily tied up in his son’s death.

A knock at his door. Kate and Edmund walk in, the siblings almost completely in step. Hotspur’s girlfriend is looking worse for wear, as is to be expected, although it’s hard for him not to notice that the lingering tears make her eyes sparkle even more than normal. Grief suits some people. Henry doesn’t know quite how to deal with the siblings: their connection is diminishing and soon Edmund will be just another person working within the group, Kate nothing but a reminder of his son. For now, however, they are united in their image of sadness and anger. They’re also united in trying to avoid all the rumours that have been spreading. Death reduced to a trending topic (his son had explained that concept to him once). It’s amazing the stories that can spring up in a few hours, all fighting to be the best.

‘They’re saying he’s an alcoholic now,’ Edmund Mortimer states before he can be greeted. ‘You can’t die within fifty feet of a drink without them thinking that.’

‘He was drunk, of course they think that,’ Kate snaps, her voice dead.

‘It’ll quieten down,’ says Henry. There’s little else to say. They’ve issued statements and denials, spoken to the police and the legal department, reassured investors that this has absolutely no effect on the Group. Kate sits in a chair, staring blankly at the wall. Edmund wishes she hadn’t come out, but she insisted, wanted to do something and be a presence. He knows his sister is keeping busy because she has to. She saw Hotspur drinking. She told him he should stop, but nothing else.

‘What are you going to do?’ Edmund asks Henry.

‘What everybody else seems to have forgotten: run the bloody company.’

‘What about Lancaster?’

‘Don’t worry about them, father or son. I’ll deal with Lancaster King and cut both of them off at the source of their money. Somehow I think that little shit will have some issues if he can’t fund his lifestyle.’

Edmund nods. He and his sister don’t stay much longer; they only wanted an update on what Henry was doing. People expect him to have all the solutions. They can’t have it both ways: can’t question why he’s not at home with his wife and also complain that he hasn’t solved everything yet. He’s got people searching through the records for anything they can use about Lancaster King, but there’s not much else he can do until he has a proper plan of attack. This is no longer some publicity battle or a corporate war. This is fucking death.

-

‘You could put make up over it?’

Hal shakes his head. ‘I’ll wait, it'll be better in a day or two. People won’t miss me just yet.’ 

Poins rolls his eyes, used to these priorities by now. ‘Somehow, I don’t think that’s the issue.’ 

They’re talking about Hal’s black eye, the one gained from Hotspur’s punch. Hal’s been avoiding going out for the past couple of days, lest people gossip about it. An ugly reminder of what happened. At first, it was really spectacular and the only things in their freezer were bags of ice cubes and a tub of ice cream, so there was nothing really for the bruising. Poins fussed and Hal told him it was fine, whilst still picturing the moment Hotspur fell. He’d got home at six that morning, shivering because he’d left his jacket behind. When he told his flatmate the tale, he could have sworn he could actually feel the relief flooding through the guy that Hal had been the one to come home with nothing but a black eye. That Hal had come back.

‘Not bored of staying in, are you?’

Poins mock sighs. ‘Oh god, it’s awful, staying in a few nights in a row. What has my life come to?’

‘Just checking. Don’t want to be a burden on your busy life,’ Hal says with a smirk. They’re sitting on the sofa eating takeaway pizza whilst Poins tries to decide exactly what shade Hal’s bruise has turned today. ‘You could just go out without me.’

‘I go to work,’ he points out.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m fine with this.’ It’s a statement with more meaning than either of them can comprehend.

Suddenly the doorbell sounds. It means whoever it is was automatically allowed up by the doorman, so Poins goes to open the door, wondering vaguely if it could be Henry.

‘Hi Poins,’ grins Hal’s little sister. ‘’Sup?’

She skips inside, wearing a checked shirt and jeans and a smile that grows even wider when she spots the pizza.

‘Hey, I chose the right time to visit.’

‘Philippa,’ Hal says in warning, ‘don’t eat all our dinner.’

‘Be nice to me, I’m bringing you information. Well, I’m telling you what Humphrey told me to.’ She grabs a slice of pizza and throws herself down on the other sofa. ‘Dad’s going nuts. John keeps having to sort stuff out for him because he’s too stressed out.’ 

Hal’s eyebrows furrow. ‘He doesn’t get stressed out.’

‘Does now. I spoke to Tom and he said it’s some thing with the Northumberland Group? I don’t know. Nice black eye, by the way.’

‘Not you as well. I got punched, it was nothing.’ Poins laughs loudly at that.

‘Only you would think getting punched by a drunk guy who then fell off a balcony to his death was something to pass off as “nothing”,’ his flatmate points out.

Hal shrugs. He doesn’t want it to be a big deal. For once, the limelight isn’t a great place to be.

Philippa tells anecdotes about her other brothers, mostly stories she’s overheard; Hal didn’t realise his sister was quite that nosy, and wonders what she may have picked up from his past. He makes the foolish mistake of mentioning the ice cream in the freezer, which she subsequently finishes off whilst explaining how her friends find Hal ‘so interesting’. 

‘Aww, you have a teenage girl fanbase,’ mocks Poins. ‘Maybe you should release an album. First track could be Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.’

This comment incites Philippa’s interest, so Poins relates the tale, interjected by Hal hitting or insulting him every time he makes a disparaging remark about Hal's singing and dancing abilities.

‘You didn’t mention any of this when you saw me,’ she complains.

‘Didn’t think you needed to know.’

‘Well, I did. Lucky I’ve got Poins.’ 

Hal makes a face like a petulant child.

‘You can’t have Poins, he’s mine,’ he says, pretending to sulk. He’s too busy acting to see the expression on his friend’s face, a sudden flash that crosses his angular features. An eternity of missed reactions.

Eventually, Hal notices the time.

‘Don’t you have school tomorrow?’

‘Yeah,’ his sister admits, ‘but it’s too late, I can’t go home alone.’ Hal pauses, not wanting to go out himself, not still looking like this, but needing to get her home because he's not being the utterly irresponsible older brother, not to her.

‘I’ll take you back,’ offers Poins, sensing Hal’s problem. ‘Can't get him in trouble when he looks like that, can we? It’s just pathetic.’

Hal puts on his most pathetic facial expression whilst mouthing thanks at his flatmate. His sister concedes this is an acceptable solution (more than acceptable, in fact, as she declares Poins is her favourite) and soon the pair are walking down the street to the tube station (because when Poins isn't with Hal, he doesn’t get cabs everywhere). The latter is very aware of how strange he looks, a twenty-three year old guy with a fourteen year old girl who’s telling him all about how there’s a dickhead in her Maths class called Will and she wants to stop him being so awful to everyone. Her and Humphrey are the only members of the Lancaster lot who talk to him, but that doesn’t worry Philippa, who acts like he’s another older brother despite having enough already. When he met her, she was only ten, but he charmed her with jokes about her eldest brother and they became firm friends.

‘Poins,’ she says as they sit on the tube, ‘you and Hal. Are you...you know?’ She raises her eyebrows. He’s nonplussed: that wasn’t a question he expected from her, even in her awkward way of asking. Don’t go there, he thinks.

‘No.’ He shakes his head, denying everything and wondering what brought this on. They’ve been sharing a flat for a couple of years, it’s not like it’s a surprise, and she visits fairly often.

‘Just the way you two act sometimes…’ She trails off.

‘It’s just what happens when you live with someone for a while,’ he states, hoping that was what she was referring to. He’s got no excuse for any noticeably less platonic elements of their friendship. Even less for the moments nobody sees. She nods, but doesn’t quite look convinced. It’s lucky she's not a journalist.

‘Do you think John will take over the company one day?’ she asks next, showing an impressive talent for jumping between topics.

‘I don’t know,’ he replies. ‘I really don’t know.’ 

Philippa goes back to telling him about the drama in her friendship group, but as he waves goodbye to her, he wonders about both the questions together. Somehow, they feel related.

-

In what has become far too much of a familiar situation these days, nobody wants to knock on Henry’s door and tell him the news: the Northumberland Group have, once again, invested in a rival company. If they thought they could get away with it, the cowardly employees would tell Karen and leave her to deliver their information, but Henry became savvy to this technique and outlawed such a move. He doesn’t want the best assistant he’s had to quit because she's being used as a scapegoat. Every day is a gamble over whether Henry Lancaster will be enraged and stressed, or grumpy and exhausted. Soon the whispers about age will be loud enough to hear down the street.

On the other side of the door, Henry lays on the black sofa against one wall of his office with his eyes closed, but mind racing. He wishes that the media fallout from Harry Percy’s death had been more effective for Lancaster King: as it was, they mostly attacked the Northumberland Group in the same breath as pointing out Hal’s presence there. Henry Percy’s threatening some unspecified action if Henry doesn’t cooperate with him, and his brother Thomas has made snide comments to reporterss when ostensibly dealing with the company’s direction after Hotspur’s ‘tragic accident’. If he wasn’t angry at his son for being involved in the whole fucking mess, Henry might have made Hal talk to a reporter and spread some retaliatory rumours about the night, but as it is, he hasn’t spoken to his son since he turned up at the office beforehand. Nothing new.

He rubs his temples and sighs. The hard work of running a company is never over, but he had once idealistically thought that maybe it might be easier after that initial fighting off the competition all those years ago. Back then, he hadn’t predicted that his oldest son would be such a disappointment. Henry had given him chances, and time and time again he’d been proven wrong to give them; he’s angry at those stuck up journalists who proclaim definitively how he is to blame, but in a way he knows they are right. He had hoped, kept hoping for too long. It was clear from long ago, from perhaps he day Hal left home if not earlier, that Henry could not bank on him.

A knock at his door. Hurriedly, he sits up, composes himself, prepares to be the intimidating boss again.

‘Yes?’

In walks a sheepish looking man - Gower Henry thinks his name is - carrying a file in front of him as if it’s a bomb. Bad news, he thinks: they really need to grow some balls. None of them dare to tell him anything negative, which is problematic considering the circumstances. His own family are little better: John handles things as if he assumes his father is no longer able, whilst Tom and Joan both nag at him to take it easy. They don’t understand how the company is his and he can’t let it be threatened. It’s his oldest child, his greatest success.

Gower hands him the file and leaves, muttering about a meeting. His hand shakes as he opens the door to exit. One of these days, the person to enter Henry’s office will be on a one way trip to unemployment. Karen’s been collecting bets as to when this will be (both of Henry’s middle sons are in on it).

Henry himself is tired. He keeps working late and sleeping badly. His eyelids are heavy with the weight of a company and its investors’ reputation, along with the fear that his own exhaustion could become the next story in a succession of tales designed to bring down Lancaster King Ltd. A great deal of people would welcome that day. Everybody of any worth has a huge chest full of secrets that they don’t want anybody to get hold of the key to; Henry is no exception.

-

The first time Hal reads it, he thinks it’s a joke. It has to be. The email, smirking at him from his screen like a nasty disease that’s pleased to have taken hold, is from Jack, which is a surprise in itself because Hal had no idea he could use technology. He always thought Jack was confined to the realm of face to face conversation, with the phone if really necessary. Apparently not. Apparently for really important dispatches, Jack can send emails. Emails that tell you in simple terms to break off all connections with your flatmate.

Hal blinks and reads it once again. The words haven’t changed, although he almost wishes they had. Those traitorous words warn him that Ed Poins is merely another hanger on, an ordinary boy looking for a patron to facilitate his ascension to a higher and more exciting life. Hal’s life. Jack has wrapped it up in friendly terms, describing how he is loth to bring it up (his actual words; Hal wonders if he used a thesaurus), but he feels it is his duty as a friend to watch out for the younger man. That Hal’s flatmate is only around for the money and the relative status. He claims that he has waited until he was certain that there was no other course of action. There are so many questions Hal could ask, but all he wants to do right now is talk to Poins, to laugh at the fat old fool who has so pathetically tried to sever their friendship. He needs the reassurance: it’ll be clear in his friend’s eyes, he knows.

Annoyingly, Poins is at work, making coffee for advertising executives. Hal makes the decision to go and find him. He throws his laptop into a bag and dashes off, hailing a taxi and diving inside; it’s a miracle he remembered shoes and lucky he’d already dressed in a shirt and black jeans before reading the email. It’s only as he sits in the cab staring out of the window and willing the traffic to be relatively light that he realises he’s never been into Poins’ workplace before. He’s been outside once or twice, when they were meant to be meeting there but he was late, and Poins had been standing waiting with his ‘I don’t know why I put up with you’ smile. A smile Hal's known for five years now.

The décor of the place is shiny and modern, as Hal would have imagined. In fact, it’s strangely similar to their flat. He dashes through the reception, not really thinking about how he looks, although if he did he might realise that he probably could pass off as a harassed copywriter. People look at him, but say nothing. Poins is nowhere to be seen, so he picks a target and turns up the charm.

‘Excuse me,’ he smiles to a young woman with ginger hair, ‘but you don’t happen to know where I might find Ed Poins, would you? He’s a-’ Hal racks his brain to think of his friend’s job title. Thankfully, the woman only takes a moment or so.

‘Oh, Ed? Yes, I think I saw him in the photocopying room not that long ago.’ Hal raises his eyebrows questioningly. She points. ‘That way.’

‘Thank you so much,’ he gushes, wondering if he’s overdone it. No, he thinks, she’s smiling, possibly a step away from offering her number. He’s become very good at spotting the signs. Without waiting to see if he’s correct, he hurries off. Down the corridor, he can hear the sound of a photocopier, so he rounds the corner into the room and immediately collides with someone.

‘Hal?’

‘Poins! This place is a maze,’ he offers, slightly surprised, but not as surprised as his friend, who looks worried about Hal’s appearance.

‘Are you alright?’ 

Hal nods.

‘Yeah, I’m okay, but I need to talk to you.’ He looks at the other guy expectantly and sees apprehension cloud his face. Unsurprising, really.

‘We can talk in here,’ Poins says, backing into the room. ‘Just shut the door I guess.’ Hal does so and follows his flatmate into the copier room, which is much smaller than he expected. Hal doesn’t do photocopying. ‘What’s up?’

‘This.’ He gets out his laptop and shows Poins the screen, still open on the email. Predictably, Poins’ eyes widen as he reads. Hal watches his friend and holds his breath.

‘Fucking bastard,’ whispers Poins as he finishes reading, seething anger dripping through his words. ‘That absolute, fucking…’ And then, suddenly, he looks straight at Hal, panic in his eyes. ‘You don’t believe him, do you?’

Hal realises that he didn’t know his answer to that question until that exact moment. He stumbles to find his voice. ‘No. But I needed to see...needed to show it to you,’ he amends.

They’re both staring at each other now, a strange showdown of trust where either of them could back down and break the moment. They don’t. Both expects the other to, but they don’t. Finally, Poins breaks the silence, although not his gaze.

‘So he hasn’t mentioned-?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think he-?’

‘No.’ Poins nods, satisfied. Hal puts a hand on his arm. ‘Come on, skip school today.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s blow this joint and go eat.’

‘It’s only half three.’

‘I repeat: skip school and we’ll eat. And then we’ll go out tonight. What food do you fancy?’ Poins shakes his head with a smile.

‘Italian. Just let me go make an excuse.’

One family emergency later, they’re skipping down the street, giggling at Poins’ boss and at Jack and at the world. Hal knew he’d feel better about the email once they’d laughed about it.

-

It’s late and it’s dark and they’re in a club. The usual one. This isn’t the first time this will happen and it isn’t the last. Neither are as drunk as they’d claim if anybody saw them, but nobody will. Lights flash and people dance on. The world isn’t changing. Meanwhile, their lips meet in a shadowy corner. From that first contact, they are fervid, pressed up together, hands in each others’ hair, with muffled moans and no inclination to let go. The obvious question, the one neither of them will confront, is why they will do this here, in public, when they live together, sometimes share a bed and clothes that don’t quite fit.

Of course, it’s not really in public. Nobody sees. They’ve been doing this long enough now that they know how to hide: years of it, spanning back to Oxford where there were less watchful eyes and they could be less careful. Anything can happen in student rooms. It’s all a matter of picking a place close enough to the spotlight that people are blinded and can’t see what’s nearby. Poins uses that technique when he’s around Hal too, playing the part of the shadow, slipping in and out of focus. People accept his presence, or they did. After Jack’s email, it doesn’t feel so stable to him anymore. 

Later, once they’ve rearranged one another’s appearance so as to dispel the truth, they go over to Jack’s table. He’s sitting with Bard and Pete and a few others, somehow telling stories even over the noise of the club. They’ve not spoken to him yet tonight. Unusual, but not unheard of. Hal drags Poins forward, makes sure he’s standing next to him: this is his statement to Jack, his visit saying they’re still friends but his company proving he’ll be ignoring the other man’s advice (Poins is a different matter altogether, but he’ll do this for Hal).

They go home, back to the land of domesticity where conversely they’re almost always just flatmates and best friends, nothing more. They drink water and eat toast and laugh about things that aren’t funny. Both are trying not to think about earlier in the night and both are failing miserably. Regardless, they part, off to their separate bedrooms (there’s no house guests tonight, no excuse to fight over a duvet and wake up lying closer than they’d started out). The clock ticks and Poins stares at the ceiling. He has to get up for work soon, but all he can hear in his mind are his father’s words: ‘you’re wasting your life’ and other such clichés. It feels more like living than wasting to him, but he knows these things are subjective. In another life, he would have argued back. In another life, he thinks, he would have done many things differently, but he’d probably still be here, letting Hal Lancaster take him out for dinner at four in the afternoon and bickering over how much of a person’s pudding you can steal before it becomes theirs. He doesn’t think this, but in another life, it might have ended differently.


	6. Chapter 6

'How’s it going?’ Tom asks as he walks into John’s office. His brother is busy typing away, staring intently at the screen. He’s been like this ever since Henry started relying on him to help with the company, working hard to prove himself to his father. Tom wonders if he realises that their father is too busy worrying about Henry Percy and the Northumberland Group to really notice John’s efforts.

John looks up and sighs. ‘It’s a wonder Dad has kept his position: everyone seems to be accusing him of something. Mostly dodgy dealings and false promises.’

‘Are you surprised?’

Tom raises his eyebrows. His younger brother is no idiot, but it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. As a child, he was always difficult to predict, much more so than Tom, who tended to play by the rules, and Hal, who tended to break them. Humphrey, the youngest of the boys, would outthink restrictions if he could. They were a strange mixture. 

‘No, but I didn’t expect people to be so forthcoming about it. You should see the emails he forwarded to me from the Percys. They're threatening to reveal stuff about Dad if he doesn’t give them part of the company. Who knows what they could say?’

They look at one another. Neither wants to think about what their father must have done to get the company where it is today. He’d been barely around in their childhood, too busy with work, but they’d had their mother. She’d worried constantly about him, harsh arguments when none of them were supposed to be awake. After her death, there was no one to berate Henry any more, not until Joan. There was the odd screaming match with Hal, but mostly he was at the office, with people paid to watch them. It’s no wonder, Tom knows, that Philippa idolises her eldest brother so much; he was the one who looked after her a lot of the time before he went to Oxford.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ he asks John.

‘I have a plan, I just need to sort out the details,’ John promises. ‘For now act nice to them and see where that can get me.’

‘They won’t take you seriously whilst Dad and Hal are still around, you know.’ Even their brother’s crazy antics won’t stop people expecting Hal to eventually take over the company unless they’re told otherwise; John will be undermined. Amongst themselves, they now admit that Henry’s not quite as up to the job as he used to be, but it’s a touchy subject, of course.

‘They’ll have to. I have a position here too, regardless of anything else.’

‘Anyway, what I was here for: have you seen the interview with Lord Hastings in The Times?’ John shakes his head. ‘You’ll want to,’

He hands his brother a copy of the newspaper and stands waiting for him to read it. They’re quite the picture of young businessmen: both in good suits, although nowhere near as good as Hal tends to wear, with their hair eagerly slicked back and their shoes shining. John is only twenty and Tom, only a year older, can’t see how anybody will take them seriously. Sure, they’ve had the company upbringing, joining out of private school rather than going off to uni like Hal, but they’re too young to be playing with the big boys. Even Hal at twenty three might have problems, but at least people have heard of him, albeit negatively.

‘He’s desperate,’ mutters John once he’s finished reading. ‘Worried his own fortune might be under attack.’

‘People might listen to him.’

‘They won’t. They’ll see a washed up peer with a white beard badmouthing a major company and they won’t believe a word.’

‘It’s in the paper. They might.’ 

John considers this for a moment.

‘We need to make sure they’re talking about the right thing. Not that we’ve got the greatest reputation for that in the past, but, well, we need to change the subject.’

‘How? We say too much, people start digging and they realise about Dad.’

‘Dad’s fine, he’s just tired. I wanna put Percy under pressure so he can’t put pressure on us.’

John looks determined, but it's unclear how he's going to achieve this. They can’t exactly factor Hal’s press coverage in to the equation: Tom doubts even his eldest brother himself is able to do that. The rumours about what happened that night, the reporters and the alcohol and the balcony, are still flying around, coupled with the unsubtle suggestions that this is all some plan of Hal’s to bring down Lancaster King in crazed, inexplicable vengeance. Still, Tom thinks, maybe somehow his other brother’s naiveté will end up working. You never know.

-

Another day, another accusation that he’s trying to bring down a whole company using public drunkenness and a party boy reputation. Hal’s almost impressed that they can keep the material going for so long. He’s not even done anything particularly shocking recently, thanks to the need to keep a little less in the media’s eye (thanks to the state of his own) and then a vague disinclination that he can’t explain. Maybe, he thinks, he just needed a break, to recharge ready for another onslaught. It’s a tiring performance.

He’s been searching the internet for the latest selection of rumours for over an hour now, and his conclusion is that people are starting to suspect the Northumberland Group might have something to do with how stories about him never die. Hal himself isn’t sure. The press seem quite able to keep it going without any corrupting influence, helped by the fact that Hal usually creates new stories at a decent rate. This is the flip side: keeping up with your own media coverage is a part time job at least, if not a full time one. Luckily it’s a job he can do sitting on his sofa at three in the morning wearing a t-shirt he’s not entirely sure is his: the tightness of its fit suggests it belongs to his flatmate, but then again, Hal’s wardrobe is vast and varied.

The flat is unnervingly quiet. The previous night it had been full of the usual sort of people, the ones who you could find at Minnie’s club every week, ever changing faces with enduring similarities. Lost souls, searching for a good time. In the morning, a handful of them had still been sleeping on the floor. Poins had work and hadn’t been impressed. Hal had smiled apologetically and mentally resolved to make it up to him. His friend is now asleep: he’d been nodding off over the toast he’d made himself for dinner so this was no surprise. Hal had wanted to tell him to eat something better than bread, but had stopped himself. It wasn’t his place to do that.

Hal knows this arrangement can’t last forever. Nothing can, but especially not this. A delicate balance: it goes on too long and neither of them will be able to leave. That wasn’t Hal’s plan. Force of habit is what he blames. That familiarity they built up at Oxford because at the end of the day, once you’ve been out drinking with everyone, it’s easy to have someone you can guarantee will be around, who will always say yes to your latest scheme. Someone whose bed you can stumble into, reassuringly present, but Hal prefers not to admit that fact. Time is ticking down until something must change. Even university was different to now: less restricted, less self-conscious. The consequences didn’t matter quite so much then. The press weren’t always watching. Sometimes, he could play himself.

He tries not to think about it, to think about them. Instead, he continues his search. The further he gets into the internet, the weirder the stories get. He picks out the ones to tell Poins, those which are funny and won’t enrage him. Others, he knows Jack will appreciate, anecdotes to tell whilst they drink and mock one another. Eventually his eyes start to blur, so he pushes the laptop onto the coffee table and falls asleep on the sofa, not even considering moving.

He awakens to the feeling of a heavy object on his chest.

‘Think this sofa’s got a bit shit,’ Poins remarks from his new seat. ‘I told you we should have chosen it more carefully.’

‘Fuck off,’ he says lightly, but his friend’s grin, beaming down from above him, is infectious.

‘Your bed’s all of a few metres away, why the fuck did you sleep here?’

Hal doesn’t want to say for sake of ease. There’s too much lurking there regarding his other choices. Instead, he shrugs as best he can with another person sitting on him, pretending he doesn’t notice the hand on his chest, steadying Poins.

‘How are you so light?’ Hal asks.

‘Because I never get a chance to stop and grow fat. Too busy trailing after you.’

‘Why are you squishing me? Can't start the day without my presence?’ Hal says jokingly. Wording like that is dangerous: one day they’ll slip and give an honest answer.

‘You’ve gotta get up. We’re going to the club to ask Minnie about Jack and his debts.’

Hal groans, but doesn’t argue. Jack’s too secretive about his finances, about the likelihood that there’s a whole range of people on his tail demanding money, but he’s probably mentioned it to Minnie at some point. They need to know for many reasons. Most importantly, Hal thinks, to make sure they don’t get caught up in the mess themselves. Begrudgingly, he shoves his flatmate off and goes to get ready.

The club looks stark and depressing when they arrive in the glaring sunlight, takeaway coffee cups in hand. Its back door has been left on the latch, so they creep in as quietly as possible. Minnie should be around, sorting out things for the weekend. She works hard for her club, determined to keep it going. Being a faded pop star doesn’t exactly pay well. As they sneak through the place’s back rooms, they can hear muffled voices coming from further in. The pair exchange a look, raising their eyebrows, no need to confer. This could be something interesting.

Closer, it is clear that one of the voices is Minnie’s, another is Doll’s and the final person, they realise, is Jack. They wordlessly decide it’s time for a bit of spying, so they reach the door of Minnie’s office (where the voices are coming from) and stop, leaning against the wall and looking at each other in anticipation.

‘You know how much I value you two,’ Jack is saying grandly. He likes to talk as if he’s proclaiming something to the world. ‘You’re the only people I can trust.’ 

Hal wonders how many people he’s said that to. Not that he can talk.

‘What about Hal?’ Doll asks. ‘Can’t you trust him?’

‘On his own, maybe. But he’s subject to influences, same as anybody else.’ 

Poins raises his eyebrows at Hal and they stifle a giggle.

‘Doesn’t make him untrustworthy,’ Minnie points out. ‘So are you.’

‘It’s certain influences that worry me.’ Jack stops talking, building mystery. Clearly the other two egg him on in their gestures or expressions. ‘His flatmate concerns me,’ he says detachedly like he’s never met who he’s talking about. ‘Hal has a problem, not knowing when to say no to people, and I’m worried he might let a certain somebody get away with anything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Using him to get money and fame and whatever else he’s after.’ 

The two eavesdroppers share another look, one laced with innuendo. Both wonder why Jack is bothering to be so evasive.

Doll scoffs. ‘And you never use Hal for anything...’

‘You wound me. We’re friends, me and Hal, and I never do anything wrong towards him.’

‘But you’re saying that Poins does?’

‘Yes. He can’t afford that life without Hal. You know his father kicked him out? Told him never to come back whilst he was still wasting his life with Hal?’

Doll presumably nods, but Minnie answers.

‘Really? Poor thing.’

‘It’s his own fault,’ Jack counters. On the other side of the door, Poins is shaking with anger. Hal’s hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him from bursting in. ‘He chose it. One day he’ll go too far, expect too much, and then what’ll happen? He’ll be on his own. He’s got nothing going for him really.’

‘Why’s Hal friends with him then?’ challenges Doll. Her voice sounds vicious, like she wants to prove Jack wrong.

‘Oh, because they’re similar in some ways: they both like drinking and not caring about the future, they’re young and foolish and they fell into bad habits at Oxford that they haven’t thrown off yet.’

The way he says Oxford with a mocking drawl gives his words an extra level of ridicule, as if it was the influence of the place that caused them to be the way they are. Hal can feel the tension resonating from his friend’s body. He keeps his hand firmly on the other guy’s shoulder and looks at him, straight into his eyes, inclining his mouth into a jovial smile to prove that he thinks Jack’s words are bullshit. He can do nothing else.

‘Bad habits?’

‘Oh, you know. Preying on people who don’t deserve it. Being little snobs who think they’re better than everyone else. Whatever else they get up to, in their little world they shut out everyone else from.’ 

‘Come on Jack,’ says Minnie. ‘Don’t be mean. They’re young, they’re foolish. Doesn’t mean Edward’s going to steal Hal’s money and run off or something.’

Doll giggles. Listening in, Hal and Poins don’t notice anything strange about this, but in actuality, she’s laughing at the fact nobody sees what she does, or what she believes she does. That it seems the last thing Poins is going to do is run off anywhere.

‘I don’t trust him,’ Jack states simply.

‘Oh really?’ The voice is Hal’s, who finally decided it was time for his entrance. Of course, it had to be dramatic. He’d managed to come through the door almost silently as the room’s occupants were preoccupied with their conversation. Poins slips in behind him, an unamused look stuck on his face. ‘Well, I do.’

Hal says nothing else. Deep in his mind, he knows he shouldn’t say that so obviously, not in front of the others and not in front of Poins himself. A tricky statement: I trust you, don't trust me. Minnie and Doll are smirking: even people who like Jack also like to see him put in his place. He just elicits that reaction from people.

‘Hal!’ Jack exclaims. ‘Good to see you. I was just-’

‘-insulting your friend and you in front of these lovely women,’ Hal finishes in a very passable impression of Jack's voice, before switching to his own, his tone unnervingly light. ‘Very kind of you, I was looking for someone to do that.’

‘Look, Hal, I didn’t mean-’

‘-any harm? Of course not. In fact, I said earlier that I wanted someone to question my life and the motives of my friends, didn’t I Ed?’

He looks at Poins, silently begging him to copy the flippant tone and not to be angry. It’s the name that gets through to him; Hal knew it would.

‘You wanted that very thing. It’s uncanny, Jack, how you predicted it so well. Maybe you should use this talent more often.’ Poins smiles viciously, thinking that if you ask Ed Poins to ham it up and mock someone, he goddamn will get the job done. Jack looks stunned, as do Minnie and Doll who were expecting a bigger showdown.

‘Well, if you boys aren’t offended…’

‘Oh no Jack,‘ Hal says loudly. ‘We know you were only joking. After all, a cowardly bastard like you knows no other way to make friends than to mock others behind their backs, so there’s no harm done.’ His smile could terrify people in a mile radius: it’s so falsely sweet yet so unable to be questioned. Jack just nods, sweat dripping down his brow.

‘I suppose I’d better be off, then,’ he mutters, scurrying out of the room without saying goodbye to anybody. Hal and Poins drop their ridiculous smiles once the door shuts behind him, although Hal gives his friend a warning glance to keep calm, just for now.

‘Look, Hal,’ Minnie begins, but he raises a hand and she falls silent.

‘It’s fine.’

‘But about Edward…’ She looks over at him with concern in her eyes. It’s not difficult for anyone in the room to tell that he’s only just holding back his rage, his jaw set and fists clenches. Doll looks secondss away from going and putting her arm around him. Poins looks at Minnie and gives her a pained grin.

‘It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.’ Hal nods at him,then turns to Minnie.

‘You could help out with something. Have you heard anything about Jack’s finances? Anything at all?’

‘I've heard a bit,' she begins. ‘He’s has been whining on about all those poker guys he owes money to, and god knows who else.’

‘Seems to think you’re going to help him out of that one,’ adds Doll. Poins laughs hollowly. Hal stares at him, then moves decisively towards the door.

‘We’ll have to see about that,’ he mutters. ‘Anyway, ladies, we’d better be going. Thank you so much for your help.’ He smiles at them and then beckons Poins along, essentially dragging him out of the door.

‘Do you think-’ Minnie says to Doll as their footsteps echo down the corridor.

‘Yes,’ Doll replies without waiting for the question. ‘I do indeed.’ She knows that whatever Minnie is thinking of, she’s probably thought of it too, even if it isn’t the specific conclusion about those two that she’s thinking of at that moment. There’s a lot of conclusions to be taken from them. For now, however, she has to get back to her job, and hope that tonight’s customers are a rich bunch. Stealing from the poor ones is never fun.

-

For once, Henry is at home, sat on his living room sofa with his wife beside him. He’s getting too old, he knows, for this to be such a scarce occurrence, but the company needs him, even if more and more recently that only results in him lying on his office sofa instead, staring at the ceiling and trying to gather energy. Tonight he’s home at a reasonable hour, having left the closing up shop (although the company never sleeps, so that’s not quite true) to John. He’s left other senior people to watch over the boy (on pain of death if anything goes wrong, of course), but he knows he has to give him a chance. Henry can’t do everything himself.

Joan is watching him, looking concerned. It’s justified, seeing as immediately beforehand he had told her about the various people threatening lawsuits or big exposés against Lancaster King. These things are all coming to a head. He’s only taking a break this evening because he can feel everything slipping away from his grasp and he needed a moment to take a breath, to evaluate things from a slightly different perspective. Sadly, it’s not looking promising. The Northumberland Group have launched a full scale onslaught which they claim is due to the need to finally let everybody know how Henry works, but he has suspicions that is simply a useful ruse for simple vengeance. Not just suspicions. He’s almost certain.

‘I knew this would happen,’ he says quietly.

‘Knew what?’ his wife asks. Somewhere in his mind, he remembers images of his first wife asking about his work in a similar way, picking the right questions to get him to open up, not probing, just encouraging.

‘That it would go to shit like this. I was warned.’

‘Who by?’

‘An old friend. An old friend I treated badly, terribly in fact, and he never had a chance to say I told you so. Hit by a car a few weeks after those words. “You can’t do deals like that Henry, it just doesn’t work. One day they’ll come back. You can’t run forever.”’

‘What was his name?’ she questions, going for that detail many people wouldn’t bother with. He sighs, not wanting to go into it, but at the same time wanting to shout about it from the rooftops and stop hiding from the past.

‘Richard.’

-

‘What the hell did you do, John?’

The question's being asked by Michael Westmore, one of his fellow Lancaster King employees and a friend of sorts. Along with Tom and a few others, they’re standing around in the publicity department watching as news is shouted around. News that John has helped to create or, even, created himself.

‘Agreements between Lancaster King Ltd and the Northumberland Group? Infighting between Henry and Thomas Percy leading to questions about their ability to run their company? Seriously brother, did you sell your soul for this?’ Tom says in awe.

‘No,’ he smirks. ‘I merely took advantage of a few opportunities, like a few journalists I knew from school and their desire for scandal. Funny how simple it is: make people seem to be arguing whilst you openly discuss working together, and suddenly they're the ones with problems.’

‘But what are the agreements?’

‘Oh, they’ll be nothing, but for now they’re the incentive to keep off our backs. The Percys have the influence to keep everyone else quiet for a bit too, whilst we offer false promises and wait for them to fall to pieces. Shouldn’t be difficult, not after Hotspur. Seems Mortimer’s angry that Henry hasn’t done more for Kate. I’m not even sure if I helped that rumour or not.’ 

Those around him laugh appreciatively. What he’s done isn’t much on paper, but currently it’s more effective than anything else and what they need is time. Henry has been barely around for days, taking what he claims is a short respite from everything to regain his strength. John is simply keeping the company going until his father returns. If he gains praise in the meantime, he’s not going to say no: being the third brother in a family like the Lancasters isn’t easy. He knows what people are saying, as they whisper to one another. They’re wondering how he’s only twenty and he’s doing so well, showing so much promise. Not Tom with his mundanity nor Hal with his infamy. Him. People keep glancing over at him, muttering to their neighbours about the progress the company’s made with regards to the press. They underestimated him, but now he feels powerful. John Lancaster has to be a name they’ll remember for something other than merely being Henry’s son.

All of a sudden, quiet starts to fall. Henry sweeps through the open plan area, his grey hair and suit starting to match his face. Nobody wants to question how much of a break he actually needed. Henry clears his throat.

‘Boys, my office, now.’

The plan's worked, but it's not over.


	7. Chapter 7

Shouts and laughter fill the air of the pub like a separate entity. At the centre sits Jack Falstaff, jovial and devil-may-care to any onlooker, his round face illuminated with the glow of a thousand jokes. Near him are his court: the usual Pete and Bard, along with Pistol, another slightly mysterious drunkard who Jack is friends with. Pistol, shockingly, is too much for Hal: he has an amazing ability to make almost everyone hate him, mostly through prejudice delivered with a huge level of bombast. Therefore, Jack tends to see him separately, in an effort to avoid one of the massive confrontations that have occurred in the past when Pistol and Hal have met.

‘You’re deluding yourself, you fat old fuck,’ shouts Pistol, showing all of his usual tact. He is thick-set and difficult to avoid once he's there, just like his opinions. ‘That boy won’t give a rat’s arse about you once he’s all high and powerful. You’ll just be another fucking mistake he wants to forget.’

‘No, that’s where you’re wrong,’ Jack counters. ‘He’s not going to forget me. I’m Jack Falstaff.’

‘All the more reason to.’ 

Laughter tumbles out of the audience, filling the gap whilst Jack thinks up a response.

‘He’ll give me a job,’ insists Jack. ‘He promised me that. Said I’ll be invaluable to him.’

‘Bullshit. He was either drunk or lying if so.’

Jack shakes his head emphatically. ‘The boy wouldn’t do that. He’s like my own son.’ More laughter.

‘That’s no good sign,’ points out Pete. ‘Look how he treats his dad.’

Jack raises his pint glass in a solemn toast. ‘Mark my words. I’m gonna get somewhere and then you lot’ll all come crying to me. “Oh Jack, please help us, please share your excessive wealth”.’ 

Bard scoffs. ‘You can’t even pay for that drink right now.’

‘It’s ‘cause little Hal’s not here to pay for it,’ jibes Pistol.

‘No,’ says Pete, ‘Hal’s not here to promise to pay for it and then leave it up to us.’

The conversation continues in this vein. Jack grins at them, but inside he’s scowling, angry that they don’t believe him. Glasses chink as drinks are consumed. Jack knows he needs to get out of there before it’s his round, because they’re right about him being skint. Luck hasn’t been all that kind to him recently. The gambler’s delusion: everything will turn around eventually.

Jack finishes his drink, then stands. He’s perfected a way of moving that draws maximum attention to himself, complete with unnecessary flourishes.

‘Off already, old man?’ asks Pistol, despite being not much younger than Jack. He is really, many think, too old for the nickname, but he refuses to listen to them. Pistol’s not mysterious: he’s a divorced chancer whose various employments are all vaguely illegal and whose real name is Chris. Not everyone can be elusive.

‘Only to get away from you boring twats.’

‘Fuck off. Remember to send us a postcard from whichever alley you end up sleeping in once Hal’s told you the same.’

Jack gives him a threatening look and walks out into the dark night. The streets contain their usual mixture of people: smartly attired professionals walking fast to avoid the drunks and lowlifes like those he just left, loitering youths smoking because, Jack thinks, they’ve no idea how fucked up life is (or maybe they already know). He walks at no great pace, feeling at home here. It’s chilly, but not too cold, and he’s wondering where to go. He’s not heard from Hal, so assumes he’s at home, and considers going to pay a surprise visit. But, he thinks, Poins will be there, and after their last meeting, it would probably be best to avoid him. The guy’s quick to anger, especially where Jack’s concerned.

He turns down another darker street, still thinking about what to do. A woman watches him apprehensively from a doorstep. He nods cheerfully at her, wondering who she is.

As if out of nowhere, hands grab him and he is pulled down a tiny side street. His feet stumble and he goes to call out, but before he can, a fist connects with his stomach, winding him. Instinctively, he bends over, but another blow hits him on the side, causing him to overbalance and fall to the pavement pathetically. Jack kicks out, trying to hit his attacker, a solid looking man in black, but receives a couple of kicks of his own in retaliation. 

‘Stop, fat man, and this’ll all be over,’ his attacker says in a gruff voice, aiming another kick. ‘I’m here to give you a message. Pay Black Eyed Bob or he will fuck you up.’

Jack can barely see the guy’s face in the darkness of the street, but he nods anyway, big emphatic movements he hopes can be seen.

‘It gets much worse,’ warns the guy, then stalks off down the road fearlessly. Jack doesn’t move. He lies humiliated on the cold pavement, trying to ignore the pain searing across his abdomen. Jack Falstaff is meant to be infallible. Jack Falstaff is not meant to be stuck in the gutter, bruised and sore, just another foolish old gambler who thought he was safe from his debts and paid the price. It’d be really useful if Henry were to give up the company soon, he thinks as he starts to get up slowly, not wanting to linger there too long. Time to wish hard for somebody’s death. Henry Lancaster means nothing to Jack, after all.

-

Henry is not looking good today. His face is gaunt and pale and the constant raising of his hand to his face betrays that it's not just in appearance. Everyone has been told it’s stress; they just don’t know how much it’s getting to him. No longer is the stress directly related to how the company is doing: it has become almost incessant, worse than ever before.

Both Tom and Humphrey are looking at him with concern in their eyes as they eat dinner in a fancy Italian restaurant. Humphrey is home from uni and was coerced into this meal by his older brother. He sits fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt and wondering if he should visit Hal later or wait until the next day. His fair hair flops over his eyes, which gives him a vaguely adorable look he’d like to dispel. Tom sits and eats more carefully, three years at the company having taught him a lot.

Once their plates are clear, Henry clears his throat. ‘Where did you say Hal was?’ he asks Tom. Not a question, an accusation.

‘I don’t know, father.’ 

They know they sound stupid talking like that, but it’s how Henry brought them up to refer to him.

‘I think he’s eating with friends,’ mutters Humphrey, trying to stop there being an awkward silence. Henry doesn’t care. He never cares normally. This is just an opener to one of his rants.

‘Who exactly?’ Henry enquires.

‘Um, Poins probably.’ 

Henry doesn’t even deign to give that a response.

‘Tom, you should keep in touch with your brother. He values you highly, even if he doesn’t show it at the moment.’

Humphrey has to hold back a laugh at his father’s ridiculous insistence to ignore the actual connections between his children. Tom is liked by everyone, but not especially by anyone, mostly due to the fact he tends to do what his father tells him to. Henry would never dream of talking to Philippa about Hal’s actions or intentions which is, Humphrey’s eyes, is a stupid move. She idolises her eldest brother and usually knows a lot about him. Humphrey does too, although his being away at university so much lessens that these days. Regardless of these facts, their father likes to pretend that all of his children are as disgusted with Hal’s behaviour as he is.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ says Tom diplomatically. Navigating the waters of their father’s demands is his speciality.

‘He has been such a disappointment to me,’ continues Henry as if Tom didn’t speak, ‘but maybe your influence can help. Those people he spends his time with…’

‘Someone suggested that maybe he’s just watching them, to see how people think, get a rounded picture,’ offers Tom hesitantly. Henry nods, considering the option. Humphrey wants to laugh again; people have been searching for years for an excuse for Hal.

‘I just hope he gives up on this project soon. To be so proud of one son making his way in my company whilst another ruins his whole life...it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. John has been so successful recently. If only it could encourage Hal to compete with him.’

Henry takes a sip of his water. Sweat is running down his forehead. His sons sit in silence, unsure what to say. Tom taps his fingers on the table and starts to speak.

‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine, father.’

-

Whilst his father and brothers were discussing his prospects, Hal was indeed eating dinner (Thai, the little place he and Poins love), but now he’s at Minnie’s club, at the start of another night which promises to be memorable. They never see the irony of saying that about evenings drenched in alcohol. The place is already quite full, mostly with people he knows at least by sight. Tonight is a shirt and waistcoat night, combined with jeans and boots that either make him roguish or a poser. He’s happy with either interpretation. His image has been lagging recently and he needs to kick it back to what it was. Lower those expectations a bit more. 

Jack’s been over the top with friendliness since Hal arrived, so he assumes the man wants something. Money, probably, he thinks. He’s sitting in a large group, with chairs gathered up from around the club. Poins is next to him; his friend’s not saying much tonight, but the sound of his laugh reassures Hal in a way he doesn’t quite understand. If he had time to think about it right now, this confusion might infuriate him. Instead, he just appreciates the reassurance. Doll brings drinks over and looks meaningfully at Hal. He simply nods back, oblivious.

The jokes are coming thick and fast tonight. For once, none of them is the subject, not any of the usual targets or one of the newcomers who have somehow ended up in the group. Instead, they mock celebrities and rich kids that no one but Hal has met. Distance is safer. Nobody’s trying to attack one another tonight. Music pounds in the background, but for now they favour banter, mostly not of the wittiest kind. Alcohol hides their inadequacies. After a while, Hal leaps up and stands on his chair, raising his arms dramatically.

‘You wonderful people,’ he declares, ‘who are so full of life and bad whisky. You may not be the cleverest-’ He looks over at Bard and people chuckle. ‘-or the richest-’ Jack gets the look this time, causing an even greater laugh. ‘-or the best looking-’ This time he sweeps his head round to look at everyone, grinning widely at them and their laughter. ‘-but know this: you are exceptional company and I love you all.’

Everybody cheers as he jumps down, taking a bow once his feet are back on the floor. Poins rolls his eyes as Hal sits down and leans over to mutter in his ear.

‘Surprised you didn’t thank the Academy.’

Hal smirks.

‘You know they loved it.’

The night progresses. Hal dances around, apparently paying no apparent heed to skill or fashion. Lights flash, illuminating his face so that he can seem joyous one moment, almost sinister the next. People dance with him, drinking up his influence and fame. Some nights it bubbles over into infamy, but it hasn’t so far tonight. He remembers very few of them. This isn’t due to intoxication, though. As a matter of fact, he’s drunk very little tonight, although his actions suggest otherwise. He runs his hands through his hair and smiles easily at everyone, as if apportioning out the facial expression.

Despite all this, he can tell something is off about his friend. Poins looks weary, his grin closer to cynicism than happiness most of the time. It’s not right. Hal has no idea why or what to do, so instead he keeps returning to the guy, bringing him back beside Hal, keeping him safe from harm because protection is all he can think of. He’ll never realise this, but he’s only a few minutes away from wrapping his arms around his friend and taking him home, just to try and stop him looking like that.

‘Wonder what’s up with him?’ Hal says to Poins, jerking his head in Jack’s direction. Over to the side of the dance floor, he stands leaning against a barrier looking unimpressed.

 

‘Seems people’ve stopped buying him drinks since they don’t get any in return,’ replies Poins. ‘Funny it took so long, really.’

‘Guess he’s got no money to buy them himself.’

‘Now he just looks like a creepy old guy in a club.’

‘That’s what he is,’ mutters Hal. There’s no denying it. ‘He’s alright once you know him though.’ Poins doesn’t look convinced at that, reverting back to a vague scowl.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hal spots a figure in a smart suit approaching. His demeanor suggests that he’s not at the club for fun. He nudges Poins.

‘Think they’ve picked their most boring employee this time? Totally incorruptible?’

‘I thought they’d stopped sending people,’ he replies. ‘Realised you couldn’t be persuaded by the company lackeys.’

‘Maybe they’ve got a new technique.’ Hal moves towards the edge of the dance floor, deciding to play ball long enough to find out. The suited figure spots Hal thanks to his height.

‘Harry Lancaster?’

He nods.

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but your father’s had a heart attack and has been taken to hospital. If you’d like to come with me?’

No one speaks. The loud music prevents silence, thumping away and forcing them into a bubble, removed from the rest. Hal’s frozen in shock, so Poins answers for him.

‘He will.’ He turns to Hal. ‘Go on.’ Hal is still staring, finally catching up with reality as Poins squeezes his hand encouragingly. He nods at his friend and follows the newcomer out of the club, caught in a haze where nothing quite feels real.

In Hal’s mind, the cab journey takes both forever and no time at all. The city has decided to exclude him: everybody he sees outside the window is laughing at him, seeing through his disguises. At the hospital he finds his family amassed, looking like the cast of a clichéd sitcom. Joan is looking through the window in the door to Henry’s private room, watching the doctors at work, whilst his siblings all loiter, from Tom pacing around with sharp lines on his face to Bethany sitting quietly on a chair staring into the distance. John’s on the phone, muttering under his breath furiously at someone.

‘Hal!’ shouts Philippa, running down the corridor to him as he approaches. ‘He’s-’ She doesn’t finish her sentence, just wraps her arms around him.

It feels weird, like he doesn’t belong there, with the family he's meant to have run away from. Their tableau has been broken by his entrance. His youngest sister clings to his side as the others fill him in on details. He learns how Henry ate dinner with Tom and Humphrey, how he seemed fine if worn out, how he got home and then collapsed in the living room. The details wash over him as if it's a scene out of one of those medical dramas him and Poins sometimes mock when there's nothing else to do. He watches how everyone reacts in such specific ways: John makes phone calls, Tom tries to be helpful, Joan watches carefully as if checking up on the professionals. Humphrey and Bethany both sit, saying very little. Philippa chatters to Hal, apparently unable to stop talking despite her obvious tiredness.

The doctors leave and Henry wakes up. Hal wonders why everything happens in exact stages. Joan goes in to sit with him, then lets the girls see their father for a moment and takes them home, because it’s much too late by now. Humphrey goes with them, having been unable to do anything but smile at Henry and walk back out of the room. Hal waits, letting everyone else go in first. He’s not entirely sure he even wants to speak to his father. Tom leaves their father’s room and gives his brother a strained smile.

‘Better go and get some sleep,’ he says apologetically. Hal didn’t want company anyway: he’s waiting for the moment when somebody points out the strangeness of him being here, being worried. John goes in, finally off the phone. Hal wonders what the visitor restrictions are, and considers claiming they wouldn’t let him in to avoid taking his turn, but when John exits, already dialing another number, Hal summons his courage and opens the door.

Pathetic, is Hal’s first thought, he looks pathetic. The machines beep and Henry looks at him clearly. He beckons his son forward, towards the chair placed by the side of the bed. Hal steps forward awkwardly, wondering if they’re going to have a heart to heart. Instead, once Hal has sat down, Henry closes his eyes and falls asleep. His son doesn’t move. It’s a test, he feels, a test to see if he’ll wait and take whatever’s coming when Henry awakens.

Time ticks by. Hal nods off himself, jolting awake each time his head falls far enough. Nothing is real to him, just a haze of tiredness. In his half-awake state he imagines Poins there, telling him off for not sleeping properly, but when he opens his eyes he is alone save the slumbering figure of his father.

Hal drifts off again and when he lifts his head, he sees his father staring back at him.

‘Harry,’ his father croaks, and in the pause for breath, Hal wonders why you wouldn’t use the shortest version of someone’s name when you’re in such a state. ‘I did it, you know.’

‘What?’ he whispers confusedly, caught in a strange game.

‘What they said. Ripped him off.’ He’s gasping for breath between each sentence. ‘Lied to him. Cut him off. Then he died and I was safe. Business works like that.’

Hal sits waiting whilst Henry talks, as it takes him an age to finish, then he nods, because he understands. Richard King, his father’s original business partner, killed in a car accident before he could reveal what had occurred between them at the start of their company. People had always wondered exactly what had happened, Hal included.

‘Business isn’t nice,’ Henry continues. ‘You can’t play fair.’

‘I know,’ Hal says.

‘No,’ croaks his father angrily, unable to make sounds much louder. ‘You don’t. You waste time. You waste money. But you have nothing. Those people have ruined you.’

What about before I met them, Hal thinks, but he doesn’t dare to say that. Not now.

‘They haven’t, dad.’ The informal term is unusual, but it works here. ‘I’ll leave them all behind. I can do it. I’ve always planned to.’ 

Henry manages to convey incredulity with simply the scrunching up of his eyes.

‘You’ve become too much like them.’ He breathes heavily. ‘Drinking all night, sleeping all day. Nothing. You are nothing.’

‘No, father. I will do it. I’ll cast them aside and I’ll work for the company,’ Hal whispers desperately. He doesn’t want to say ‘run the company’. That sounds too fatal.

‘You can’t. You’re too weak.’ Henry looks frustrated that he can’t shout properly at his son.

‘I’m not,’ pleads Hal. ‘I’m not. It was all an act.’ He looks down at the ground, avoiding eye contact.

‘An act?’ his father asks.

‘Yes. So people wouldn’t expect me to be good. So they’d underestimate me.’ He stops there. He doesn’t want to overdo it. Henry looks exhausted and weak, as would be expected, and Hal doesn’t want to be the cause of him getting too agitated. Besides, convincing someone takes careful skill.

‘Then you’ll take over the company? Properly?’

‘Yes.’ Henry gives him an appraising look.

‘Hal?’

‘Yes?’

‘You might need to do it soon.’ On that prophetic note, Henry’s breathing becomes too ragged and he wheezes. Hal calls for a nurse and scarpers, not wanting to discuss the issue any further. He doesn’t want his father to be able to evaluate too far.

-

Instead of going home, Hal finds himself outside the offices of Lancaster King Ltd, gazing up at the building in a vague sense of awe. Never before has he felt like this towards the place, but now that the prospect of running the show is staring him in the face, it has become suddenly more impressive. More momentous. By now it’s dawn and the streets are turning from people out very late to people up very early. Instinctively, he knows he needs to go inside.

The night security lets him in easily, having heard the news and expecting he’s doing something vital for the company. Hal paces round the corridors restlessly. Everything is shiny and efficient, chosen for minimalist decor and maximum work ethic. Soon, he thinks, this will be his. He will stroll round this building powerfully, making people listen to him who previously laughed at his exploits in the paper. It’s a lot of pressure.

He wants a drink but has no idea where he could find one, so he settles for a can of Coke from a vending machine. It’s cold and refreshing, like a first drink in a very long time. Eventually his travels take him to John’s office, where he stands outside the door, looking at the plaque that reads ‘John Lancaster’. He knows his brother won’t like being his subordinate. Assuming the role of boss will necessitate some power struggling. Hal moves his tour on, looking at the offices in the soft glow of the early morning light. The silence somehow echoes in his ears. He is alone here.

His pilgrimage ends at his father’s office. The door is locked so he stands outside, looking at the assistant’s desk with its neatly organised surface. He thinks about how he will have this: someone to organise him and his company and his life. It doesn’t occur to him that he already does. His tiredness is transforming into the stage of sleep deprivation where sleep is no longer an option. Slowly, he wanders back down the corridor, wondering why he came in the first place. It seemed like such a vital option at the time. As if the place is a labyrinth, he cannot leave, opting instead to keep walking even as employees start to turn up, all with worried faces as the news spreads. They are fearing for the security of their jobs.

Soon, he finds himself sitting on the same sofa that he slept on after the karaoke night and his telling off. Absentmindedly he wonders if there is any glitter left on it. He thinks back to that night, to everything that happened, and then stops himself. He doesn’t want to go there, because tangled up with that is a bunch of thoughts he’s trying to avoid having. Implications he doesn’t want to consider, even though he always knew they were going to come.

‘Thought I might find you here,’ says a voice he recognises as Humphrey’s before he lifts his head.

‘Why?’ he asks his brother, because he doesn’t even know why he’s here.

‘Only natural. The shit with dad, the question of what happens next…’ Hal nods, but he has a sudden urge to get out of there. To run away. ‘Did you speak to him?’ Humphrey asks.

‘Vaguely. He was asleep mostly.’ It’s true enough. ‘Listen, Humphrey, I’ve got to go and catch some sleep. Let me know what happens.’

‘Sure. See you.’ 

Humphrey smiles, but Hal is already standing, marching along the corridor because the building suddenly feels claustrophobic. The outside can’t come quickly enough. He stands panting in the cool air, trying to calm himself. The realisation is hitting him painfully. Very soon he could be the director of the entire company. Very soon his entire life could change completely. Will change. It’s inevitable now.


	8. Chapter 8

Still Hal doesn’t go home. He heads off to the club, knowing Minnie will be because it is where she spends most of her time. It must be strange, he thinks, going from being some slightly famous pop star to a washed up club owner whose clientele revolves in part around the infamy of Hal himself. The darkness of the club’s daytime interior is reassuring after the light of the morning. Spilt drinks linger in the air and the floor, even after being cleaned up. There’s always a mess left behind. Suddenly he feels exhausted. Not seeing anyone around, he goes into the main room and lies down on some soft bench seating. A hour or two won’t be a problem, he thinks as he dozes off.

The buzz of conversation wakes him. He opens his eyes, disorientated, quickly realising where he is. It’s impossible to tell if anyone has noticed him. The voices sound like Doll and Minnie. Waking up on a seat in a club in the daytime would feel weird enough, even without the night that Hal’s had. He ponders going back to sleep and ignoring everything for a bit longer, but starts to tune into their conversation.

‘I’m worried about him,’ says Minnie in the motherly tone she adopts for her favourite patrons. ‘If what the rumours say are true.’

‘Well,’ Doll replies, ‘Hal did disappear off last night. His dad must’ve been pretty bad for him to do that.’

‘That’s what I feared.’ Hal is intrigued by the mention of himself. The women’s tones suggest something awful is expected to happen. ‘What will he do if Henry dies? What will he do without Hal?’ 

Doll coughs. ‘I think it’s more than that.’

Hal jolts, nearly rolling off the seat.

‘I did wonder. I mean, the way Edward acts around…’ 

Hal does fall off the seat this time.

‘What?’ he exclaims as he does, forgetting that he was actually listening in to their conversation and that it's very likely they had no idea he was even there. Doll screams in surprise.

‘Hal!’ shouts Minnie. ‘What are you doing here?’ They walk over to where he’s lying on the floor.

‘I was just sleeping.’

‘We can see that. I meant why are you even here?’ He shrugs, not wanting to go into the sense of dread which is causing this strange tour.

‘What did you mean?’ he asks instead.

They both manage to look shifty and confused simultaneously.

‘Oh nothing…’ Minnie says unconvincingly. Hal gets up slowly, looking at them with the most wounded expression he can muster. They will break, he thinks. Doll’s chewing her lip, close to speaking.

‘We were just talking about what Poins'll do once your father dies,’ she says nervously, as if she could be telling him the wrong answer. ‘Y'know, when you take over the company…’

Hal doesn’t reply, waiting for them to elaborate. There’s clearly something they don’t want to say. He is vaguely aware that he probably doesn’t want to hear what it is, especially not right now.

‘I mean, the two of you, you live together,’ Minnie flaps, ‘so that’ll make a difference, and you’re always together, and…’

‘He’s fucking in love with you,’ Doll blurts out impatiently.

Hal blinks repeatedly, wondering if the whole scene is a result of exhaustion and worry. Maybe it’s a coping method, his brain suggests, and really he’s passed out somewhere. His heart’s beating fast and he’s suddenly too hot, too enclosed, too everything. ‘In love’ is no little thing. It seeps into all those cracks they’ve so carefully ignored, the disjointed edges between reality and the images of themselves that they try to perpetuate. It’s not so much the elephant in the room as the very material the room is made from. He feels jittery, wanting to run but not sure where to.

Slowly, he realises that he’s not said anything in minutes and Minnie and Doll are staring at him with concerned looks on their faces. He runs his hands through his hair for something to do, noting objectively that he really needs a shower and probably a change of clothes. He needs food and sleep and a chance to let his mind slow down. He needs to go home, but that just got desperately complicated.

‘No,’ mutters Doll eventually. ‘You are not telling me that you didn’t have any idea about this. No way.’ She shakes her head despairingly. Hal opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know what to say. ‘Shit, I’ve made Hal lost for words.’

If he thought he’d lost reality earlier, it’s nothing compared to now. His mind is a jumble of images and thoughts that he can’t quite fit together, a mess of emotions that he can’t describe. He shakes with the enormity of everything that is happening right then. Strangely, he thinks back to his degree: discussions of turning points in history, when the world could have gone one way or another, when everything stood poised and ready for some momentous change but that change was not definite. Essays arguing that a different outcome would or would not have affected everything differently in the end. Of course, this train of thought brings him back to where they are all tending right now: Poins.

His friend laughing at him as he tries to finish an essay ten minutes before it’s due, meeting him outside classes and tutorials with a smirk and a cup of coffee. That second of silence when he suggests they share a flat together, before Poins’ almost sarcastic ‘yes’ questioning why Hal would have ever thought he’d answer otherwise. Standing in said flat the day they moved in, staring in disbelief that they’d done it, before Hal suggests they get cocktails to celebrate and suddenly it’s what they’re going to do, the answer to the question and also hiding from the truth. Giggling in the back of taxis. Lying on the grass in Oxford drinking wine and pretending they’re in some film. Pressed up close to one another, telling themselves it means nothing because the alternative is something they can’t imagine. The images don’t want to stop.

‘Hal?’ Minnie says tentatively. ‘You’ve not spoken in about ten minutes. Are you alright?’ He snaps back to the present.

‘What time is it?’

‘Half four. Why?’

‘Just wondered.’ He’s trying to sound a lot less manic than he feels. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He turns to leave.

‘Say something to him,’ Doll shouts at him, her raised voice unnecessary in the echoing space. ‘Don’t run off without saying anything.’

Her words are vaguely cryptic, but Hal understands. Everybody is aware of the relevance of Henry’s condition. Hal may have been running from it for hours, but the truth of the matter is, he may be getting called up for service in the family company earlier than expected. This could be it.

He doesn’t get a cab or the tube, but elects to walk home, thinking about what the hell he should do. His very own turning point has come and nobody’s writing an essay to tell him the effects of his actions. He’s on his own.

-

Poins stands in the packed tube carriage and wonders if Hal’s back. He’s not heard from his friend since Hal left the club the night before but that’s not surprising: even when it’s not an actual emergency, Hal’s not the best at remembering to keep in contact. Just like any other day when he’s coming home from work, he thinks about what he’s going to eat (and consequently, what Hal will eat and if they’ll go out) and feels annoyed at everybody who shoves him, even though it happens constantly. By the time he reaches their door, he’s ready to collapse on the sofa, and hopes Hal wants takeaway if he’s not still arguing with his father in a hospital room.

As he steps through the door, he can tell Hal’s back. Tiny details, but they add up: glass on the side, keys on the table. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the guy himself steps out of his room, wearing a surprisingly casual jeans and t-shirt. At least he doesn’t have to worry about where his friend is, Poins thinks, before noticing the strange expression on Hal’s face. It’s not one he’s seen before, which surprises him.

‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ Hal questions, his voice low and quiet.

‘Say what?’ Poins is confused. He’s got no idea what conversation they’re having. Hal’s response is even quieter than the initial question.

‘That you were in love with me.’ 

Too shocked to answer rationally, he goes with his immediate reaction, in a voice just as soft as Hal’s.

‘Still am.’

‘What?’

‘You used the past tense. I was correcting you.’ Neither of them move, standing in their big open plan room that suddenly feels too spacious, lacking in cover.

‘Why?’ Hal asks. It’s many questions in one. Poins must choose one to answer.

‘Didn’t feel like something I needed to bring up.’

‘You should have told me,’ Hal insists. Poins knows he’s both right and entirely wrong. Their relationship is full of paradoxes.

‘You knew.’ Hal stares at him. ‘You knew, but you didn’t want to accept it.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Of course you did. How else could we have avoided the subject so well since we were nineteen?’ Poins points out.

‘I-’ starts Hal immediately, but something stops him.

‘Terrified, both of us,’ Poins continues, taking advantage of Hal’s silence. ‘The excuses have been impressive. Like the day we went to see your father about moving in here.’ Hal smiles at that. ‘Most people would use the excuse of sex as a way of getting at their father, but you did it the other way round.’ 

Hal doesn’t deny it.

‘Still worked.’

‘Not the point. We’re built on excuses.’

‘You made them too.’

‘Of course. Never said I was any better than you.’

‘So you’re saying I-’ Hal doesn’t finish the sentence, seems to check himself. ‘How did we get this far?’ Poins laughs at this, a hollow laugh that he doesn’t like but he can't stop.

‘We couldn't do it any differently. Knew how it had to end.’ The look on Hal’s face makes Poins want to wince, to close his eyes and not see that look any more. It’s pain, but it’s the knowledge that the pain can’t be stopped, either.

‘Why?’ he asks pointlessly. Maybe it’s the only question he knows, Poins thinks, but now isn’t the time for sardonic thoughts. It’s time for avoiding each issue with another one.

‘You won’t get close to anyone. For good reason, but you won’t.’

‘I live with you,’ Hal points out, apparently avoiding the end of that comment.

‘Yet we pretend and keep telling ourselves and each other the same lie. It's nothing. It means nothing and it never did.’ Poins spits out his words bitterly. Hal finally moves from the spot he’s been standing. He steps closer, just one single step.

‘Ed, I-’ 

Poins looks down.

‘How’s your father?’ he asks.

‘Not great,’ says Hal. Poins looks back up and sees the torment on Hal’s face. He’s obviously worked out where this line of questioning is going, realised it wasn't a simple deflection.

‘So soon you might have to-?’ He doesn’t want to say it, because it sounds like he’s giving a death sentence.

‘Yeah.’ 

They look at each other. Poins feels vaguely light headed, in a bad way.

‘And when you do?’

‘You know what I have to do.’ Hal takes another step forward, his eyes shining apologetically. There are barely words to say it, but they must find them, must for once actually say something out loud that means anything at all. Poins summons his powers of speech for that one word.

‘Leave.’

‘Everything.’ Hal whispers. ‘It’s the only way I can do it. Even you.’

Poins knew that. He knew that there was no way he could be the exception. His position in the life that must be thrown off is too integral, as the ‘bad influence’ flatmate that the media have blamed and speculated about. He wishes he could say ‘even now? even after all this?’ and make him stay, but he can’t. There’s no point in trying, he knows.

‘What if it’s soon? What if it’s tomorrow?’

They’re talking about Henry’s death, but that’s not the problem. Well, it is technically, but it isn’t. It’s the countdown that doesn’t have a definite ending date. Regardless of this, Poins has known this moment will come ever since he saw what Hal was doing, saw the method behind the act and the plan he was getting ever more drawn into. It's been a while.

‘One last night, just in case?’ Hal suggests. There’s a desperation to his look that can’t be missed, even if his words are meant to be casual. They both know the 'just in case' is unnecessary; there's no just about it.

The thing is, Poins knows full well he should say no, for his own sanity. Self-preservation should be an instinct, but he thinks years of Hal have worn his away. He should leave now, quickly expose the wound and run away without looking back, but he can’t. There’s no way he can go. He must wait for Hal to leave him.

-

Sometimes life works in ridiculous ways, Hal thinks as he stands in the hospital a second time, this time looking down at the lifeless figure of his father. It’s a fucking cliché. Sometimes somebody says tomorrow and tomorrow is indeed when it happens. His family is gathered once again, but nobody is speaking. Henry had a second heart attack barely an hour ago and died shortly afterwards. That’s the official description. In reality, all Hal can think is how undignified it was, how embarrassingly real. His father wouldn’t have liked that.

The other implications are important now. There’s no use in him putting on a huge show of grief, because nobody would believe it. Privately he can feel sad, if he should so wish, but his public role has taken on a whole new capacity. Lawyers at Lancaster King are already drawing up papers, dealing with the legal side of the whole business. Henry’s personal solicitor has been called and the will is being looked at. Apparently Henry’s assistant was very efficient, or still is. John has been combining sadness and organisation with occasional glares at Hal. He knows he’ll have to speak to his younger brothers, tell them that he’s going to take the role of director seriously, but John’s not going to take it well. When it comes down to it, however, this is what Henry dictated must happen.

Maybe Philippa can sense that Hal, or even Harry as he now feels he should be called, has changed fundamentally in the last hour or so, as she’s taken refuge with Humphrey instead. His life has a different function now. He’s already starting to get into the mindset, although he knows it’ll take a while. There’s a lot to cast off.

Eventually they leave Henry's bedside, having accepted there’s nothing more they can do there, and go to the house now empty of Henry’s presence and still full of it. Tom guides Joan to an armchair: she is their stepmother and they are protective over her. She’s been good to them. Bethany sits on the floor beside her, reading a book. It’s clear she doesn’t know how else to react. It’s definitely time, Hal thinks, to say something.

‘Guys,’ he begins, calling upon years of talking to drunken crowds, ‘I know this is a horrific day, but we are strong together.’ He’s very aware that this is probably the only time they will be all assembled in their grief, other than at the funeral. ‘I just want you all to know that as of today, I am wholly here, with the family and the company. My old life is nothing but a youthful mistake that will serve to prepare me for future dealings. My new position is no easy gain, but we must go on.’

Nobody speaks. The words are bitter on his lips. He knows it was ridiculous, but it did its job. Tom is nodding vaguely: he appears proud of his older brother, if he can feel pride as well as loss right now. Bethany is gazing at him uncertainly, but not harshly. His two previous greatest allies look sad, with what he knows is the double loss of their father and of their brother who has transformed into another one. John does not look impressed or convinced. Hal doesn’t care. He has to stop caring. There’s a business to run.

-

The employees of Lancaster King Ltd are unlikely to get much work done today. Not through grief, but because their new director is expected at any moment and the office can barely contain the whispers and gossip. Newspapers are unashamedly strewn across desks as people compare the various methods used to report the story. Solemn business commentators make predictions for the company’s future next to articles making puns out of Hal’s infamous past in relation to his new role. The publicity department have their work cut out as ever, but for a new reason. They received an email the night before with instructions from Harry Lancaster. Apologies for the past, too. They are the people least convinced by his show of responsibility, but they won’t show it. Value their jobs too highly.

‘How do you think he’ll enter?’ mutters one employee to another.

‘Powerfully. It’s gotta be a show of force,’ speculates the other. ‘Or nobody’s gonna take him seriously.’ Their friend nods. Everybody’s expecting the same.

‘What do you think he’ll say?’

‘Not much. Try and intimidate us with silence, probably.’

Waiting; efficiency lost in anticipation. This day could make or break the company. Karen waits outside Henry’s old office and rearranges her desk every five minutes, in between fielding calls and emails. It’s early, earlier than most people are normally here, but they couldn’t miss out. Some are already considering going home after he’s turned up, feigning something or another. It all depends on his entrance.

A call comes from reception. He’s here. They scurry around, pretending to be preoccupied with anything that isn’t his arrival. The atmosphere is tense: curiosity and a strange sense of excitement mixed with a dash of morbidity. Henry is dead, after all.

Like an apparition, he’s suddenly there, standing at the opening to the workspace. Tall, thin and suited, with his hair slicked back. Most of the onlookers would say that, although he looks pretty similar to how he did before, there’s something definitely different that they can’t quite place. A whole new aura. He doesn’t move, just stands, watching, taking in the scene. Nobody is sure how to act: whether they should stop what they’re doing or keep pretending to be busy. He clears his throat and saves them the decision.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he starts, a smile on his face that he hasn’t quite managed to make reach his eyes, an unusual occurrence, ‘I want to welcome you to a new era of Lancaster King. We will rise up from my father’s unfortunate passing and keep on flourishing, as we did under his inimitable direction. I am aware that many of you will have some preconceptions about me, because my reputation precedes me,’ He pauses and chuckles, causing others to smile in response, ‘but please be assured that this image is no longer true. I am now Harry Lancaster, director of this company.’

He steps forward and walks in the direction of his new office. Just before he reaches the corridor, however, he turns to face the room again, speaking the memorable words that they will whisper about once he has left.

‘I am not who I was.’

-

Already, the club is suffering. It’s as if Hal injected life into the veins of the place and only the lingering effects of his last visits are keeping people there. Minnie’s sitting at a table with Jack, the pair of them taking in the state of the place and drinking the good whisky. None of the rest of the crowd is around, other than Doll working behind the bar. People are scattering, losing interest. There’s little energy, just apathy and a sense of loss that nobody understands.

Jack is lamenting: after days of hope and visits to the lobby of the Lancaster King offices, he received a call this afternoon kindly requesting that he stops harassing the company as there is absolutely no chance that they will offer him a position. In his self-delusion, he had never expected such an outcome. The employee on the other end of the phone line had listened whilst he ranted and swore and threatened Hal, patiently responded whenever he asked a question, whether it was rhetorical or not. A couple of times, he could have sworn they actually laughed. Maybe it’s a boring company to work for anyway, he thought, if they have to laugh at shit like that.

‘Did you know this would happen?’ Jack asks Minnie, because he wonders if it was all that obvious. She hesitates.

‘Well, maybe a bit.’ She pulls a face. ‘I guessed he’d have to do something huge.’

‘I can’t fucking believe he’d do this to me.’ Jack drains his glass and scowls. It’s not his usual scowl, which is a general sense that the world is against him, but a newer, darker one.

‘What are you going to do?’ Minnie questions, possibly picking up on the facial expression.

‘I don’t know,’ he says as she refills his glass. ‘Eventually these people’ll stop waiting for their money. They’re not patient.’

They sit for hours, until the bottle is empty and the club only contains those too drunk to leave of their own accord, telling stories about the past that get more and more bitter as the whisky disappears. Jack tells so many versions of the tale of how he met and befriended Hal that a book could be filled with them. The truth doesn’t really matter. Hal’s becoming a myth already; a figure who once existed but now has passed beyond to even greater status.

Eventually, Jack stands, swaying slightly but doing very well, all drinks considered.

‘I’d better be off. Need my beauty sleep.’ The joke comes out more harshly than he intended. Minnie looks at him sadly.

‘Look, Jack, if you really need to pay these people, borrow the money off me. Then get yourself a job and stop moping around.’ 

He nods ‘Thanks Minnie. You’re a doll.’ 

Jack saunters off into the early morning darkness, the time when the street is mostly drunkards. There’s a chill in the air and he stumbles along, unable to afford another means of transport. Some might assume that he would have learnt his lesson, but he hasn’t: when he is pushed into a dark alley by an unknown force, he still doesn’t expect it. The punch to his face seems to happen in slow motion, smashing into his nose hours after he saw the fist coming. It’s then that he realises his reactions must be off, as he clutches at his bleeding and probably broken nose, waiting for the next blow. It’s a nasty one to his stomach that causes him to double over, making the next hit topple him like a bowling pin.

‘Stop,’ he gasps from the floor, as the dark figure leers over him. He can’t even tell if it’s the same guy as last time. ‘Please stop. I...I can get...the money…’ His words are broken up by kicks to his abdomen.

The attacker doesn’t listen, or doesn’t care. The concrete is cold but Jack can’t get up, can barely even move his arms. Kicks to his head disorient him until he can barely remember where he is. All he can do is jerk feebly, a terrible attempt at fending off the other person. He gasps for breath and waits for the beating to cease, but it never seems to. Finally, the mysterious figure spits and leaves, all without saying a word. Jack’s body is limp on the pavement, broken and unconscious. The night goes on around him. The city doesn’t care.

-

‘Fuck,’ mutters Poins. It’s a sentiment he’s been voicing a lot today; he is moving out.

More accurately, right now he’s packing. Going through the stuff a couple of years of flat sharing has spread around and working out whether any of it will be useful in his new place, some shitty little box with barely two rooms to hold everything. He can’t go back to his family. He can’t deal with his father’s gloating ‘I told you so’, his family thinking they know everything when they don't understand any of it and nobody ever will. Instead he’ll live in a tiny flat with memories of the past and a job that gets him nowhere.

The past week has been very strange. Hal left for the hospital on that morning and never came back. At first Poins couldn’t believe that the fucking coward would get somebody to send an email asking him to leave at the end of the week, but now he can see why Hal did it. Any conversation they had would be past their expiration date and would go rotten pretty quickly. The flat has felt so empty he can barely believe it at times, but he couldn’t leave until the last possible moment. All of Hal’s stuff is still there, waiting. He assumes someone will come and collect it once he’s gone. He wonders if Hal is letting him decide which things are his.

This specific ‘fuck’ is due to dropping one of his old uni books on his foot. He picks it up and looks more closely at it. It’s huge - _Clarissa_ by Samuel Richardson, one of the longest books in the English language - and tatty, a remnant from a hazy summer term studying the long eighteenth century, reciting lines of poetry at Hal whilst his friend tried to avoid reading about the feudal system or something. All the books must come with him, bringing their snippets of memories with them. He could throw them out, but maybe they can be used as furniture, a side table or a stool or anything to justify their existence.

Once the literature has stopped fighting back he moves onto clothes. He's been dreading that. For one thing, a surprisingly amount of Hal’s stuff seems to have ended up in his room, due to lack of organisation and their tendency to steal things off each other, despite their differences in stature.

Draped across his chest of drawers, for instance, is his favourite tie: blue, the one of Hal’s he borrows most. It harks back to a crucial day in their friendship, an inconsequential-seeming evening in their second year at Oxford when he was fussing over what to wear to a formal dinner and suddenly there was Hal at his door, proffering the tie with a grin like he just knew. Hal had unnecessarily tied it for him, then they’d gone off to drink free wine and ultimately to spend the night together in Poins' room, waking up to the denial that they needed to define themselves together. Back then, it wasn’t all such a delusion: sex was just something they did, along with drinking and lounging around procrastinating. Oh how easy it was, he thinks with a sardonic smile, running his fingers over the tie. He’ll take it with him. He doubts that Hal will miss it and he barely has any of his own.

Poins trails around the flat, picking up things and singing along badly to The Smiths, who Hal always scorned (‘you’re such a stereotype’, he’d tease, but Poins never found out what he was a stereotype of). In a strange show of revenge that’s not revenge at all, he takes DVDs that aren’t his and feels like he’s won something. Of course that’s ridiculous. He’s lost too much to have won anything.

Last of all, once he’s decided which cutlery and crockery he’s claiming as a necessity for his new flat, he goes into Hal’s room, trying and failing not to look at the rumbled bed, the clothes strewn across the floor. The proof of life. He grabs t-shirts that are his but Hal for some reason has borrowed despite the size difference (they were always too tight on Hal, wonderfully too tight), and wonders how much of the rest of the stuff here will just be thrown away, too reminiscent of who his friend used to be. Ex-friend, he tries to amend, but he can’t. There’s a lot of things he can’t do these days, he finds. Sometimes he hates himself for that. He fights the urge to lie down on the bed, just for a moment, because he can’t delay this any longer. It’s time to leave and never return.

The last of the things packed up, he brings his bags and boxes into the stupid huge open plan room where they used to live their lives in parallel. Him making coffee whilst Hal sat on the sofa moaning about people; Hal cooking one of the few things he could make (probably risotto, which he was amazingly good at) whilst Poins read a book and gave him sarcastic compliments to keep him cooking; both of them drinking and watching bad TV or the same old films. The ghosts of these people, their lives constantly overlapping, dance round the room. He blinks and shakes his head. No more.

It takes four trips to bring everything downstairs to the taxi waiting to take him away to his new, more solitary existence. By the last, he’s breathing heavily from the exertion. Staring around the flat for the last time, he imagines that in another world it wouldn’t have ended this way, but they could have stayed the way they were forever. No, he berates himself, that’s bullshit, because nothing lasts and because Hal was never ever going to stay. Their friendship was a countdown until it would be forced to fall apart and he’d picked that fact up pretty quickly. Poins turns the key in the lock and posts it back through the door. It’s over.

-

Hal stands and looks out the window of his new office, staring at the London skyline that he’s now a metaphorical part of. His company is part of. It’s a lot of pressure; his face has grown a serious look in the past week that wasn’t present beforehand. People are already speculating whether the Northumberland Group are going to take revenge for Hotspur now that he’s director, questioning whether his turnaround will last. Hal made his choices so these are his problems. No going back now.

He looks down at the ground. His shoes are shining back at him, black leather ones, the sort he’s barely worn since black tie events at Oxford. They are Italian made, according to the note inside, and rubbing his feet. The whole outfit is one he bought the other day: he’s not going back to the flat until Poins is gone, so he couldn’t retrieve any of the ones he already owns. He can’t face seeing the other guy, because he’s scared that the resolution he was so certain about might start to waver. Instead he hides in his new role, because acting is what he has always done so it comes easy to him, regardless of the part he must play.

Soon, he must go to a meeting and be his public persona again, but for just a moment, he needs to breathe. To remember those words he almost said a week beforehand, that may not have changed much but it would have felt like it to him. Instead, he didn’t. He stayed quiet and avoided the subject, like always. The universe revolves around inaction and unspoken truths. He wonders if Poins knew what he didn’t say. What he might have said if it wouldn’t have fucked up everything. Still, it doesn’t matter.

The director of Lancaster King turns and leaves his office, weaving down the corridors to the meeting room. Harry Lancaster smiles, gestures, talks, whilst inside a flicker of Hal remains, remains to remind him what he has done. What he has gained and what he has lost. A new beginning, but at the same time, it’s all over now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, you are awesome. Seriously, thanks for reading. Apologies for anything too ridiculous.

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody's interested, [here's a playlist I made of music related to the fic](http://shinobi93.tumblr.com/post/53188255378/the-oldest-sins-a-henry-iv-modern-au-mix-for), because I have to make specific playlists to write to.


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